


In Her Honor

by RileyHale



Category: Hey Arnold!
Genre: Action, Brawling, Chemistry Lesson, Drama, F/M, Intrigue, Mixed Martial Arts, Mystery, Physics Lesson, Some Medical Detail, Suspense, There Be Big Words Here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-14 21:04:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 150,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20607305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyHale/pseuds/RileyHale
Summary: Happiness is fleeting, as Arnold discovered to his devastation. Seventeen years later, he must confront the ghosts of his past. Could this spell the end of the Footballhead?





	1. All Good Things...

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Hey Arnold and its characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

  1. ** Prologue: All Good Things…**

"Where is he?" Her tone betrayed her frustration. "I mean, criminy, the Football Head goes through all the effort to organize this fancy-schmancy rooftop shindig and he doesn't even have the decency to show up on time for it!"

"Oh Helga," Phoebe retorted. "he's probably trying for the fashionably late angle."

"Get real, Phoebe! Arnoldo and fashionable do not belong on the same continent, let alone in the same sentence!"

"Oh, come on, Pataki!" the third voice weighed in. "Now that you two are an official couple you're gonna have to accept him with all his eccentricities. He probably stopped to help an old lady cross the street or find her missing cat or something."

"Ooooo….'eccentricities', Geraldo! Did Phoebe teach you that new word?" Helga playfully mocked.

Gerald was having none of this: "Well at least she's a good influence on me. Hopefully he'll be a calming one on you."

Helga would have been livid at Gerald's remarks if not for the fact that they were true. She and Arnold were a newly-minted couple. The confirmation had been made in the presence of witnesses. Said witnesses had reacted with cheers of joy, and maybe also a sense of relief, of knowing that the inevitable had happened. Not that it was the reason for the rooftop celebration at the Sunset Arms. The real reason was to celebrate the return of Arnold's parents and for Arnold to apologize to his classmates for drawing them into the San Lorenzo misadventures. Which was why Miles and Stella were on the rooftop, socializing with Phil, Gertie and the rest of the tenants. Even Aunt Mitzi had put aside her rivalry with Phil to celebrate the survival of her nephew and his beautiful wife. Most of the San Lorenzo tour group was there as well, partaking in the feast laid out by the Shortmans as a symbol of their contrition. Festivities everywhere. Friendly, cheerful chatter, the jungle ordeal reduced now to humorous anecdotes – with some exaggerations here and there. Everyone enjoying the moment. Except for one.

"Phoebe! Run down and check if Arnold is on his way!" Helga instructed with her usual brusqueness.

Phoebe understood. As much as Helga loved Arnold, as much as the class and most of the neighborhood knew about their relationship – good news traveled quickly after all – Helga still felt the need to maintain her tough veneer and thus didn't want to come across as too eager about being around her beloved footballhead. Such was Helga and her contradictory emotional states.

Phoebe understood the situation all too well and responded: "Checking!"

And with that, she tore for the exit. Gerald was more interested in helping himself to the spread laid out and went to do just that. Helga was left alone to ponder how she would chew out Arnold for his tardiness before immediately making up with him.

She would not get the opportunity. 

* * *

There was cause for the celebration. San Lorenzo was a memory. Whether it was a good or bad memory depended on who was asked. For Arnold, the good outweighed the bad. By a very, very long margin. He'd found his parents. He'd made his feelings known to Helga and she accepted. There was however also the bureaucracy and long hours with the San Lorenzo police, recounting the kidnapping ordeal with Lasombra. In the end, they needn't have feared any legal ramifications, as the local law enforcement was all too happy to be rid of "that pendejo" Lasombra: his demise and the fates of his soldiers were cause for much celebration by the rank and file.

The stifling bureaucracy encountered at the US consulate would also be filed under "bad memories". Questions, forms, more questions, background checks, corroborations: all for the sake of replacing lost travel documents just to get back to the USA, to Hillwood. But eventually even this was dealt with and before long they were all back home.

There'd still be the therapy sessions with Doctor Bliss. Lots of therapy sessions given that they'd experienced, according to an unusually understanding Principal Wartz, "a very severe mental trauma" and would need time to unpack the events and their impact.

But it was the here and now that mattered to Arnold as he breathlessly sprinted to the Sunset Arms. His excitement to be with his parents had not waned since they touched down three weeks ago, nor had his eagerness to be with Helga. He had been delayed because Mrs. Vitello had needed help crossing a particularly busy street and required help that he was all too willing to provide. Before that, he'd been shopping for a gift. A gift signifying acceptance and reciprocity. One sure to surprise its intended recipient, in the best possible way he hoped. Now though, he was dreading the wrath of Helga for not arriving at the appointed time. Eventually, the building came into sight, with Phoebe standing at the main entrance.

"Arnold!" she yelled. "You'd best hurry. Helga is really agitated by your tardiness."

"Sorry! Sorry!" he huffed between worried gasps.

As if Helga had heard Phoebe's admonishments, she peered over the ledge on the rooftop and caught sight of Arnold. Arnold felt her gaze and looked up at the roof. Their eyes met, and Arnold saw disapproval and unconditional love in Helga's steely gaze as only she could manage.

"Hey Football Head! Party's started without you! Get your keister up here right this moment!" she shouted in the most convincing display of agitation she could conjure.

"Whatever you say, Helga, whatever you say!" he shouted back.

And then she died. 

* * *

A preliminary forensic report would later posit that three explosions occurred. The first one would have in the basement of The Sunset Arms, where it ruptured a gas main, causing it to ignite. The subsequent gas explosion, sizable enough to register on the Richter Scale, emitted a powerful shockwave that critically weakened the building's foundation and structure. The building was rendered structurally unstable, but it remained standing momentarily. The shockwave also set off a sizable stockpile of dynamite, curiously located in a room rented out to one Ernie Potts. The dynamite was of such a poor composition to be unstable enough that the shockwave was sufficient to trigger it. As an aside, it was later established that Ernie Potts had been stealing dynamite from the demolition company at which he was employed and stockpiling it for an as yet undetermined reason. The dynamite explosion was powerful enough to destroy the base of the first floor. It also took out enough of the roof to cause it to cave in, spilling the occupants to the inside of the building's structure. At this point, the report stated, the walls caved in and buried the occupants in the building's rubble. Those not killed by the initial shockwave or by the subsequent fall were fated to perish, whether directly or indirectly, by being crushed by said rubble.

This chain of events lasted for less than twenty seconds, but Arnold experienced it in slow, dream-like disbelief. He witnessed Phoebe being propelled away from the doorway by the sheer force of the gas explosion and land hard on the road surface before skidding and rolling across the asphalt, striking and tumbling over the opposite curb before finally grinding to a halt on the opposite sidewalk. He looked up at the roof to see Helga peering at him wide-mouthed in fear and confusion. He would have screamed some reassurance to her, but the third explosion drowned him out and engulfed the roof in dust and ash. He would have run up to be with her, but Phoebe was closer and in more immediate need of his help. He ran to her and found her bloodied, limp and barely conscious; her hair, skin and clothes were all smoldering from the blast. Then, as the building buckled for the final time, it was all he could do to pick up the severely injured girl and run like hell down a nearby alley to the back of the building opposite The Sunset Arms. He offered a prayer that the lee of the building would protect them from the fast-approaching cloud of thick, choking dust.

His prayer had been answered; the back of the building kept most of the dust away from them. Finally, he had a chance to assess the situation. He was coated in dust and his arms and chest were slick with Phoebe's blood. He became aware that he himself was bleeding; not that he realized it immediately, but bits of brick and glass had struck him and embedded themselves in his left arm and left flank. He would have collapsed at the realization, but he forced himself to stay conscious for Phoebe's sake at least.

Finally, when the dust had settled somewhat, he was able to peer down the alley towards his former residence. It was no more: only bricks, mangled steel pillars, shattered glass. Most sickening were the pained screams and groans from within the debris, amplified mercilessly by the narrow, resonant alley. Loud at first, then fading…and fading…becoming distant and softer. Then…silence. No more screams. No more groans. No more desperate pleas for assistance. Nothing.

His growing disbelief manifested in a series of increasingly despairing screams.

"MOM!"

"DAD!"

"GRANDPA!"

"GRANDMA!"

"HELGA!"

"ANYBODY!"

Only silence as tears streamed down his cheeks to punctuate his distress. Deathly silence, broken only by Phoebe's pained moans as he cradled her limp figure in his arms, then by a wheezing sound slowly approaching. Brainy's severely injured figure emerged from the subsiding dust in a zombie-like gait.

"Brainy?" Confusion. "BRAINY?" Disbelief. "BRAINY!" Hope.

"Huh…huh…Arnold," Brainy managed weakly.

"Were you on the roof? How'd you survive? How..?" Arnold realized he was overwhelming the spiky-haired boy.

"Huh...I don't know."

"What about the rest!? WHAT ABOUT THE REST!?" Arnold found himself not caring about his classmate's fragile physical condition.

One word, wheezed pitifully: "Sorry."

"No no no no no no NO! You mean my family? My my my friends?" Then quivering: "Gerald…? Helga…?"

That word again: "Sorry." At which point Brainy surrendered his consciousness.

That single word enervated Arnold and his adrenaline started wearing off. He finally became aware of the shooting pains in his flank where small bits of high-velocity glass and masonry had found their target. He could feel a sticky wetness spreading across the area.

He would have embraced unconsciousness as well at that point, but he felt Phoebe slipping away in his arms. Damn him! Damn him for always wanting to put the needs of his friends before his own! She had to stay alive, she had to. He was desperately telling her that much while willing himself to remain alive and calm for her sake. And for Brainy's.

The subsiding adrenaline made Arnold aware of approaching sirens coming to a halt near the remnants of The Sunset Arms. Then came the booted footfalls and the loud issuing of orders within the rubble. Arnold gathered the last of his fading strength to stagger with Phoebe into the now almost clear alley to face the first responders: it didn't matter who saw them.

"Hey! Over here! _OVER HERE_!" he managed. A firefighter turned to him, towards his wounded scream.

"OH JESUS! WE GOT SURVIVORS! WE GOT LIVE ONES!" she screamed to her colleagues as she sprinted towards him and Phoebe.

Arnold interpreted her undivided attention as permission to lapse into insentience, which he did. 

* * *

Arnold woke up to a clean, sterile environment. He was taped up, stitched up and hooked up. He didn't like it, so he fidgeted violently in an attempt to escape the bed, the tubes and the monitors.

"No no no, don't get up! You need to rest!" came the calm insistence of the nurse as his firm grasp stopped Arnold from removing the tubes.

Arnold didn't want to comply, and he struggled with ever-fading strength and vigor until he was forced to accept that he was going nowhere.

"There you go, champ," the nurse reassured him, "there you go."

Arnold opened his mouth to talk, only for it to feel like he was gargling on gravel. Eventually, he forced out a word: "…Where…"

"You're at Drymon Medical Clinic," answered the nurse, who anticipated the next question as well. "You were pretty banged up. You've been out and under for almost a day now."

"…Huh…?" Arnold's lucidity was a long way yet from returning.

"Oh yes!" the nurse explained. "You have a concussion from the blast. Plus you were treated for first-degree burns. And then, young man, and then...you know how many stone and glass fragments they fished out of you? One or two even nicked an artery here and there. So there was blood loss as well. Not to mention the dust inhalation…actually, you got off much more lightly than you could have!"

Arnold wished to respond, but words were still proving elusive. "Water…" he eventually managed.

The nurse fetched him a glass of water, which the blonde boy drank in desperate gulps to soothe the sandpaper lining his throat. He now felt confident to speak more than one word at a time. "Family…friends…OK?' at least his throat wasn't seizing up anymore.

The nurse's expression went from chipper to solemn and suddenly he seemed lost for an answer. When two uniformed police officers entered, his relief was visible to all. "Good evening, officers. How can I help you? This young man just woke up! Are you here to take his statement? I guess I should leave you to it then!" he issued in a constant stream as he beat a hasty exit from the room.

The officers stared in bemusement at the nurse's exit before one of them turned to the bedridden boy: "How about it, son? We heard your nurse striking up a conversation with you. You up to answering a few questions?"

Arnold nodded weakly, then proceeded to recount the events up to and immediately after the explosion. One officer asked the questions, the other studiously jotted down the answers. The questions were relentless but considerate. Anything out of the ordinary, anything at all? Any vehicles that didn't belong in the neighborhood? Anyone whom he hadn't seen in the area before? Any details, big or small, anything that could help in any way. Anyone from the block acting differently?

No. No. No. And many times, no.

What about the explosion? Arnold recalled hearing more than one explosion. He knew that one propelled Phoebe away from the building, while another one brought the building down. But he could have sworn he heard another one immediately before those two. Eventually, the ordeal was over, and the policemen thanked Arnold for his co-operation before leaving.

At the same moment, the nurse arrived with a doctor, both with expressions suggesting that some grim news was forthcoming. They made their way to his bedside, the doctor bracing herself mentally and the nurse preparing himself to back her up.

"Mister Shortman…Arnold…I'm afraid I have some very bad news," she began with a quiver in her voice, watching how his heart rate started spiking on the ECG.

Arnold feared what was coming. All the time he'd been nurturing faint hope that his family was still alive. He'd rationalized it over and over. Grandma and Grandpa survived ninety-plus years of the worst that Earth could throw their way; what was a little explosion? Mom and Dad survived pirates, ground zero at a volcanic eruption and a potentially fatal case of sleeping sickness. Helga, Gerald… they went through hell with him and for him, they walked away from a crashed bus…what was a small collapsed building? He had to believe that they were still alive. He had to remain optimistic – Goddammit, _someone_ had to!

"Arnold? Arnold?" the doctor's voice came back into focus; Arnold's jumbled thoughts had drowned her out.

"Huh?" was all that could convey his desperation and disorientation.

"I'm really, really sorry. Your father and grandparents did not survive the collapse. Your mother…we did all that we possibly could for her, but…the organ damage was too severe, and she died in the ER."

Arnold felt his chest tighten. Still, he managed: "Friends...Gerald…Helga?"

"Excuse me? Who?" the doctor wasn't sure of the question.

The nurse whispered into her ear, and the doctor nodded in recognition though her expression did not lighten in the slightest.

"There was a Gerald Johannsen, DOA. Severe cranial trauma. Helga Pataki, she made it to the OR but unfortunately, she…she had a piece of shrapnel lodged in her one lung, causing it to collapse. She…went into respiratory shock and we couldn't resuscitate her. I am so, so sorry for your loss, Arnold," she stated with equal parts warm empathy and cold professionalism.

"What?" Arnold asked, fuelled by disbelief and a spike in adrenaline.

"Arnold, I'm sorry but you and two others are the only survivors. Another boy – I forget his name – and a young girl – Phoebe Heyerdahl, I believe – still in surgery, but I must tell you that her prognosis is not looking good."

He'd heard enough; in fact, he'd heard more than enough. Arnold's shock at the news was revealed in a cry that defied his weakened state and his still-scratchy throat. He let out a wail that echoed throughout the entire floor while he flailed wildly at anything and nothing in particular. His vision was reduced to tear-streaked flashes of color and violent motion. He heard one voice, two voices, more voices shouting for him to calm down. He felt hands push down on him, keeping him still as a voice in charge ordered more sedatives. He struggled, he thrashed, he wriggled, he screamed, he felt himself weakening and as he slipped back to sleep he heard the doctor's voice saying once more how sorry she was.

Arnold's youthful innocence died that day.

Arnold's youth died that day. 

* * *

"_Hey, Orphan Boy!"_

And so his already bad day was about to worsen exponentially. He had been discharged after a week in the hospital. It was a week that made him regret his survival. Brainy had recovered and vanished. Phoebe was still in intensive care, in a medically induced coma and still miles inside the woods. He himself had had a few sessions with Doctor Bliss with no sight of any breakthrough, no matter how many times she reassured him – and the police report confirmed – that no part of the tragedy was his fault.

"_Hey, I'm talking to you!"_

Worst of all were the visits from the bureaucrats from Child and Family Services. Their stern mannerisms were immune to his tragic circumstances. All that mattered to them was placing him somewhere, anywhere, to hell with his wants and needs. He'd be lost and forgotten in the system if not for the timely intervention of Eduardo.

"_You've got some nerve being here!"_

A possible terrorist attack on American soil was worldwide news, and when news of the associated loss of Miles and Stella Shortman reached Eduardo in San Lorenzo, it prompted him into catching the earliest available flight to Hillwood. His time there was split largely between being Arnold's only visitor and engaging with CFS, whom he eventually convinced that he would be a suitable guardian for Arnold Philip Shortman.

"_You got something planned for the rest of us, huh? Hoping to finish the job?"_

Arnold was ambivalent at Eduardo's news. Eduardo was a way better option than Arnie and his brood, but he'd have to relocate to San Lorenzo. Eduardo insisted that it would pose no problem, given the fact that Arnold's birth in San Lorenzo granted him dual citizenship. Arnold was not fully convinced.

"_You think that cheap suit makes you less of a killer?"_

Having barely been discharged, he was now at the memorial service for his deceased family and friends. Given the extraordinary circumstances surrounding their deaths, the city and press were making a national live event out of the occasion. The largest hall was booked, no expense was spared. Full police guard detail. Large garishly framed pictures of the deceased. Limousines for all the next-of-kin. Flowers as far as the eye could see.

It was here, under the unrelenting scrutiny of countless news cameras, that he encountered the remaining Patakis amid a sea of glares, hisses and murmurs from the other attendants. Arnold was regretting his survival once again. Bob's jibes were relentless, and the pointed gazes of the other mourners crippled him with their unspoken questions:

"Why only you?”

“Why not my son?”

“Why not my daughter?”

“Why not my brother?”

“…my sister?”

“…my friend?"

To which he had no answers.

"_Christ, wasn't it enough to kill off Helga?"_

Enough! A switch had tripped inside Arnold's mind and the guilt previously painted across his face disappeared, in its place a look of searing anger. Arnold walked up to Bob, who was spread across his aisle seat.

"_NOW_?" he asked the seated figure.

"Excuse me? Did you say something?" Robert Pataki rose to face Arnold, to the embarrassment of Miriam and the chagrin of Olga.

"She has to _die_ for you to remember her name?"

Bob was caught off-guard briefly, but he recovered quickly: "Watch your mouth, little man!"

Arnold felt all the eyes, ears, irises and microphones suddenly focus on him and Bob but was no less perturbed.

"The hell I will! You treated her like shit while she was alive. Now you suddenly care about her?"

"That's none of your business, Orphan Boy!"

"Fuck you, Bob!" the diminutive boy blurted out to nationwide gasps.

His candor earned him a fierce backhand across his cheek that sent him spiraling across the aisle.

"Don't you fucking talk to me like that, you little shit!" Robert Pataki bellowed. "I'm Big Bob Pataki, and don't you fucking forget it!"

But before he could continue his tirade, Robert Pataki was tackled by several policemen announcing that he was under arrest for assaulting a minor. The ensuing melee drew screeches from Olga for the police to leave her daddy alone as she joined in the struggle, drawing more officers into the skirmish. The reporters sensed a Pulitzer and congregated around the chaos.

One of them saw Miriam keeping her distance and approached her, voice recorder primed and ready.

"Mrs. Pataki, is there any truth to Arnold's allegations?"

"I-I-I-I…" stammered an overwhelmed Miriam.

"What about you, Mrs. Pataki? Has your husband treated you badly too?" another reporter asked.

"Has he abused you? Has he abused his daughters?" another still.

"Miriam! Shut up! Don't say a word!" screamed Bob, flailing and striking and struggling from within the ongoing altercation.

But the barrage of questions continued as even more reporters chimed in.

"Mrs. Pataki, did your husband sexually abuse your daughters?

"Mrs. Pataki…!"

"Mrs. Pataki…!"

"Mrs. Pataki…!"

"Miriam, don't say another word!"

The hall erupted into chaos at the sight of the unfolding spectacle. Even the mayor's call for order went unanswered. Miriam felt the chaos engulf her and fell to the floor where she curled into a fetal position and started humming Chopin's Minute Waltz to herself, oblivious in her newfound happy place.

Soon enough the policemen were able to overpower and cuff both Bob and Olga and were leading them out of the venue. Eduardo was helping a dazed and bleeding Arnold back to his feet. They both watched the handcuffed duo in their impromptu perp walk. Bob had gone quiet; Olga, however, looked back at Arnold with murder in her eyes.

"You bastard!" she shrieked. "This is all your fault! I'll get you for this! You ruined everything! You're dead, you hear me? YOU'RE _DEAD_!"

The reporters ravenously pursued the entourage in a din of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Miriam was left behind, forgotten, still humming somewhere in Cloud Cuckoo Land and able to receive attention from the assembled paramedics. Otherwise, silence descended, though the air remained no less acrimonious.

Arnold broke the silence: "Eduardo, can I have a moment please?"

Eduardo nodded and Arnold walked to the photographs at the front. To each one he said a solemn farewell: Rhonda; Nadine; Eugene; Harold; Curly; Stinky; Sid; Mr. Huynh; Ernie; Mr. Kokashka.

He got to Gerald's portrait and started choking on the emotions: "Farewell, my brother!"

By Helga, his sobbing couldn't be repressed: "Sorry Helga. I'm so very sorry. I really did love you. I'll never forget you."

Finally, his family: "Thank you for being my family. I'll always love you."

Arnold was now convinced. He rejoined Eduardo and they left together. Three hours later they were on a flight back to San Lorenzo, to a new life away from Hillwood.


	2. Aftermath: Phoebe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Hey Arnold and its characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

The pain was overwhelming. Her vision was kaleidoscopic.

Her main recollection had been of hands cradling and caressing her. Hands, strong and caring, comforting her.

A sad voice. A gentle voice. Willing her. Encouraging her. Pleading with her.

"Phoebe, stay with me!"

"Phoebe, don't die."

"Phoebe, you're gonna make it."

Another voice. More voices. Rough hands making her lie flat. Noise, speed, blackness, silence.

…

…

…

She was conscious again. On and off. She sensed frenzied movement and heard fragments of frantic voices.

"…severe head trauma!"

"…pupils blown!"

"…compound fractures on both legs…"

"…broken ribs!"

"Jesus, what a train wreck!"

"…massive blood loss!"

"She's going into shock!"

"…Shit! She's fibrillating!"

"PADDLES! STAT!"

…

"CLEAR!"

…

"CLEAR!"

…

"CLEAR!"

…

…

…

"OK, let's call it. Time of death is…"

"I got a pulse! _I GOT A PULSE! SHE'S BACK WITH US!_"

…

…

Sounds of desperate activity. No end in sight.

Sensations. Poking. Probing. Cutting.

Sensations, registered but not felt.

…

…

…

"OK, we've done all we can. This is as stable as she's gonna get. Rest is all up to her"

Emotions surrounding her. Despair. Doubt. Then…hope?

…

…

…

Finally, one more relieved voice: "You are one tough little lady, you know that, don't you?"

Then, merciful blackness again. 

* * *

"So what happened next?" he asked.

"Oh, you know. I pulled through," was the answer. "Full eventual recovery, barring these nasty scars." She raised her left leg to remind him of the rough dark splotch on the shin where her once fractured tibia had pierced through the skin. Then the right leg to show off a similar rough patch of scar tissue on that leg's shin.

"But the therapy was the real ordeal. I pretty much had to learn to walk again, but hey, being in a three-week coma will do that to a person," she continued. "Imagine! Traveling to another country on someone's cockamamie quest to find his lost parents just to get kidnapped by machete-wielding river pirates! Then…"

"Whoa, time out! Machetes?" He was confused. "Those guys never heard of firearms? I'd expect them to pack at least AK47's."

"Yes, well, turns out San Lorenzo has really strict gun control laws that even the criminals abide by. Anyway, I survive that, then back home this giant explosion destroys the building I'm standing in, kills my boyfriend and best friend and damn near kills me too. The really shitty thing is that I'm there because the guy who got me kidnapped in the first place, invited us all there to apologize!"

"Death of irony, right there!" he concurred in measured deadpan.

"And I have to relive all that with a trauma counselor! I think Doctor Bliss is still living comfortably off the hours she billed for my sessions all those years ago. It was terrible having to relive the fear and emotional distress and the belief that I could have died. Twice in six weeks. _TWICE_! But, you know, breakthrough eventually after many words and many more Kleenexes. Congratulations, Miss Heyerdahl, I do believe you've conquered this ordeal. One day at a time and all that."

This was Phoebe Heyerdahl, aged 28 and lying naked in bed post-coitus. Lying next to her was Detective Mark Vasquez of the Hillwood Police Department, age 32, a friend with benefits. She had just sampled one of those benefits and was smiling with content. His other benefit was being a fine detective with keen investigative instincts, a talent for eliciting good confessions from suspects and closing cases. As such he was usually assigned the high-profile major cases, the types she usually covered. An interaction between the two seemed unavoidable; theirs was initially strictly perfunctory – some would say antagonistic – with snippy conversations confined to whatever case they were pursuing, and also their conflicting understandings of the First Amendment. Gradually he started warming up to her and their conversations became more and more off-the-record, more personal, more intimate. Next was coffee, drinks, dinner. And now, eventually, this. Not that she wasn't averse to mixing business with pleasure, especially with someone whose appearance strongly recalled that of a young Benjamin Bratt.

"And what about the poor bastard who put you through all that?" Vasquez was genuinely curious.

"Not a clue. I mean, he finds his parents alive then he loses everything not even a month later. When I come out of my coma, I hear he's skipped the country. I ask around at school, no-one knows where he's gone and even fewer people care. They blame him for the explosion, call him a murderer and terrorist, even if the investigation cleared him of any involvement. I couldn't believe it. These used to be his friends! And not just the school, the whole neighborhood has made a pariah out of him. I try sticking up for him and they turn against me too! To the point that my family and I move to Seattle and start over. New school, new people, new life."

"Yeah, I know that. But what about him?"

"That's just it. No-one has seen him since. He's completely off the radar. No social media presence. At. All." She placed particular emphasis on those last words.

"A ghost, huh?"

"Not that I hate him. He was one of the sweetest boys you'll ever know, so pure of heart."

"Gay!"

Phoebe chose to ignore that remark, "The EMT's and doctors said if not for him, I would be dead. Apparently, he got me away from the building as it collapsed. Otherwise, I'd have asphyxiated in the rubble. Plus he got the emergency guys aware of our location. It must have been so hard for him, having to choose between saving me and trying to save his girlfriend. I think that must have sent him over the edge."

She would have continued the conversation, but the alarm on her phone went off. She reached for it, looked at the screen and immediately started cursing: "Shit, I'm late!"

"For what? It's seven o'clock on a Sunday morning for heaven's sake"

She disregarded that comment as well as she leaped out of the bed and headed for the hotel room's shower. She showered in record time and returned to the room to gather her clothing. What unfolded was a reverse striptease that Detective Vasquez found no less appealing. He got to see again how her baby blue panties accentuated her firm, pert derrière, how her similarly hued bra brought attention to her perky B-cups. He took in the sight of her flat, smooth belly and her long sleek legs. In fact, her entire 5'7" frame invited close appreciative scrutiny, right down to her black shoulder-length hair.

"Sorry, got to go!" she said hurriedly as she slipped into her shoes before presenting herself to him in a now slightly wrinkled cobalt blue summer dress that truly flattered her features. Her cat-eyed glasses lent a sultry, intellectual edge to cap off her irresistible, finely proportioned beauty.

"How do I look?"

"Intoxicating," as if there was any other answer. "Can't you stay a bit longer?" his voice bordered on begging.

"It's Sunday," she rebutted. "You should really save some energy for your wife."

Phoebe knew from his wince that her barb had found its target. 

* * *

Becoming a journalist – freelance at that – had not been Phoebe Heyerdahl's original goal and definitely not her parents'. The incident had damaged her intellectual faculties not one iota, and with neither Helga nor Gerald around, high school and college were an academic blur. She graduated high school at age sixteen and before her twenty-first birthday college was done and dusted as well with Majors in Psychology and Journalism and a Minor in Criminology.

Her parents had foreseen a successful, high-powered career as a clinical psychologist in her future, so they were most surprised to hear that she intended to proceed as a crime reporter. Many arguments ensued, but the parents eventually conceded that her choice of vocation was just that: her. Their only proviso was that she'd made the fullest use of her talents.

Four years of disillusionment followed, with her covering the Seattle courts and every crime du jour for detailed write-ups that often wouldn't survive the editing process; her bosses were more concerned with sensationalism and ad space than with a truthful story. This status quo fuelled her decision to go freelance, where the hypothesis was that she would write detailed stories about whatever crime caught her interest and sell to the highest bidder. The gambit was successful, with mostly the progressive media lapping up her "exquisitely researched" and "100% fact-based" stories centered around local political corruption. Such was her writing prowess that she even landed two book deals, one for her scoop on a county sheriff acting in cahoots with various methamphetamine dealers and the other involving a city official receiving kickbacks in exchange for several dubious tenders all over Seattle.

Phoebe's standing as a writer had earned her a relative degree of financial independence, and the trust fund her parents started for her since her birth didn't hurt her situation much either. She was at the point where she could comfortably pick and choose her investigation topics. Which was why she relocated to Hillwood six months prior for a proper, thorough investigation into the Sunset Arms incident.

The old block was different now, its _character_ was different: where once children played freely in the streets and mom-and-pop stores thrived, now stood luxury condos and high-end stores and boutiques frequented by the well-heeled social elite. The Sunset Arms matter proved to be the catalyst for the gentrification. In its wake, property values suddenly plummeted, leaving the locals desperate to sell for whatever pittance anyone would offer before leaving for good. Then came the construction companies, then the new breed of residents.

It was the neighborhood, but not as she remembered it.

Phoebe Heyerdahl stopped her reminiscence and snapped back to the present as she negotiated the labyrinthine maze that was Hillwood's network of back alleys before eventually finding the rendezvous point. It was a little-known square within a lesser-known maze of alleyways. She noted how no windows were facing the square on any of the buildings surrounding it. He was cautious – how else would one explain this venue with its zero opportunities for spying and eavesdropping? He was also waiting for her with an A3 envelope in his hands. He was tallish, dressed from head to toe in grey: shoes, slacks and polo shirt, his hair slicked back.

"You're late," he wheezed.

"Sorry about that, Brainy," was her weak apology.

"Still want the intel on Santalov?"

"Oh, indubitably!"

Phoebe's mind drifted again. Santalov was Vitaly Santalov, suspected Russian mob figure, and owner of the luxury condo block where once stood the Sunset Arms. This she discovered from the Deeds Office, along with several properties spanning the entire block where once she had lived with her friends, all owned via shell companies that traced back to him, and all acquired in very rapid succession.

After the Deeds Office, a visit to the Federal Records Office was in order, where she obtained copies of the case files for the Sunset Arms Incident together with any closed cases regarding Santalov.

The files of the former alluded to a "thorough and extensive investigation" which concluded that two explosions had taken place, the first one within the gas main and the second one with the dynamite that was set off. Phoebe's problem with that conclusion was that she was practically at ground zero and she could have sworn she was lucid enough hear three. Even Arnold in his witness statement mentioned three explosions. Phoebe couldn't even testify in the matter: the investigation lasted two weeks; her coma lasted three.

As she studied further, she uncovered a deeply buried report stating that the number of explosions could only have been three. The report mentioned remnants of a circuit board found in the basement near the gas main, suggesting that a homemade explosive device could have been present and could have triggered the disaster. However, the report was repudiated, ruled inadmissible because certain information about the tech who made the findings was leaked to the media: apparently he was an attention seeker and – most damningly – had falsified some or other aspect of his qualifications, enough for irreparable damage to his reputation. Said tech was later found with what was ruled a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his temple and a note stating how embarrassed he was for churning out a false result in a high-profile matter. After that: two explosions; tragic accident; case closed.

The other case files revealed a pattern with Santalov. He would acquire properties in low-rent areas, often through dubious means, and convert them to luxury locations. "Dubious means" did not preclude, for the sake of argument, the use of explosive and/or incendiary compounds for extra encouragement. Then emerged more serious allegations of bribery, assault, money laundering, and murder. Plenty of charges, no trials; most of the charges wouldn't even make it past the pre-trial hearing. There'd always be a complication: Witness recanted; Witness disappeared; Evidence disappeared; Evidence suppressed; Blah Blah Blah.

"Hey, snap out of it!" Brainy chided. "Look, this is serious shit," he continued. "The moment I hand you this, you're officially the top priority on that man's radar." But instead of handing her the envelope, Brainy produced a flash drive from his pocket and held it for her consideration.

"I know it's risky…" Phoebe havered, "but I've been preparing for just this moment, to nail whoever killed my friends back then. Maybe get some closure for me."

"I knew that would be your answer," Brainy relented as he handed the flash drive to her, "but you'll need extra help against these guys. Truth and justice alone won't get you anywhere."

"What kind of help…exactly?"

"None that I can provide. But this man can," he waved the envelope before presenting it to her.

She took it and was about to open it for a quick peek inside when he stopped her.

"No! Not now. You open it in the car. It's a six-hour ride. Plenty of time."

"What car?" her sudden bemusement made her jolt her attention from the envelope back to Brainy.

"The one picking you up. Your place. Eight twenty."

"Eight twenty?" her bemusement turned to abject disbelief. "That's.." she paused to look at her phone, "…forty minutes from now! Just to meet this stranger? Why not just call him or even text him?"

"Trust me, face to face will be your best chance."

"You say so. But why me? It's not like I can just up and walk away! Had you ever considered that when you cooked up this plan?"

"You want Santalov taken down, this is what you must put up with. Besides, …you're not exactly hurting for money. Book royalties and an offshore trust. Plus your job isn't exactly nine to five, is it?"

The things Brainy knew sometimes scared Phoebe. "Seriously?" she asked in indignation.

"Seriously. Spoiler alert: you're going after Vitaly Santalov. The man has more than half the city's elected officials in his pocket. Not to mention plenty of low-level street thugs just itching to do him whatever favor he requires."

"But…"

"No more questions. Clock's ticking. Think of it as just another assignment with some extra travel required. When you find the guy, try to get him back here. I'd really like a word with him, maybe give him some proper motivation."

_Good luck indeed_, she grumbled internally. _Find some random stranger and convince him to take down a powerful, well-connected alleged mobster. _It's not like she was being asked to perform a miracle. 

* * *

"Oh, but she already _is_ on our radar, Mister Spook!"

Detective Mark Vasquez was sitting in his unmarked police car, hidden but with a clear line of sight to the entrance of the alleyway. This wasn't his first tail nor his first stakeout and he was good at them. Phoebe didn't even look his way as he followed her, nor when she exited the alley and rather hurriedly headed away.

Then he took out his phone and placed a call.

"Secure line?" was a suspicious response.

"Yes, this line is encrypted."

"What do you want, Vasquez?"

"Looks like the princess is getting serious. Like cloak and dagger serious. She might have picked up extra intel on you."

"So? Take care of it! That's what you're for!"

"About that…there's another mystery guy out there who's supposed to help her. She's off to meet him. Not sure where but it's a six-hour journey from here. I'd rather we tail her and let them meet. Handle them together. Stage a tragic accident maybe. Two birds, one stone? You'll have a 500-mile alibi at least."

A pause.

"Handle it however the fuck you want, but just get it the fuck done! And take care of her fucking mystery man! And that damn spook!"

"Sure thing, Mister Santalov."

So Phoebe Heyerdahl had to die, he mused to himself. What a pity. He allowed himself momentarily to recall the path that led to this soon-to-be tragic conclusion. A clerk at the Federal Records Office had informed one of Vitaly Santalov's lieutenants of the journalist who out of nowhere was requesting several files on Santalov and the Sunset Arms. The lieutenant, in turn, had informed Santalov himself, who in turn ordered Vasquez to identify her and to keep tabs on her.

He first met her four months ago when she was covering the armed robbery trial of a low-level Santalov soldier. The whole trial was a set-up by Santalov's organization because (a) the dumb schmuck was expendable and would be killed in custody before any verdict could be reached, (b) anything Santalov-related would surely be a dog whistle for this reporter, and (c) Vasquez would be the lead detective on the case, thus creating a perfect pretext for a "chance encounter" between him and her.

It worked; they met. Not amicably at first; he had to spend weeks building a rapport with Phoebe and getting her to warm up to him. It worked; she did. Not even his being married was a deterrent for her. From her behavior, he pegged her as someone without any close friends, who had convinced herself that she didn't need any but was secretly desperate for any companionship. So much so that she even enjoyed exchanging messages and inane viral videos with him via instant messaging. She'd especially appreciated the cute cat videos and LOL'ed particularly loudly at the one that concealed the spyware that gave him access to her phone, its contents, and its facilities. Hell, he could even remotely use her phone as a microphone and listen in on her through his own phone. That's how he came to know of her spook and the details discussed at her rendezvous.

He hung up, then dialed another number: "Hello Honey! Listen, I'm done with the stakeout but something else came up."

"Explain." The unsurprised voice of a cop's wife now used to the frequent call-outs.

"We got word of a murder suspect hiding out in the boonies," he replied. "Multiple murders actually. We really want to make the arrest before she slips away again."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I have to be at the station to organize and coordinate a task force for her capture and arrest."

"You'll be traveling again?"

"No, not this time. If I have my way then they'll send out the junior detectives to make the collar."

"Still seems a long way from home, even for mass murder."

"We're talking high-profile here. The brass wants to avoid any clashes over jurisdiction. You know, I's dotted, and t's crossed." His wife had above-average sharpness, so his lies had to be bulletproof. Not that she was untrusting, she just required more in-depth detail before believing anything.

"And I suppose it'll be another suspect whose name you can't divulge, due to the sensitive nature of the case, quote-unquote." Her voice reflected her frustration at being a cop's wife.

"That's usually what happens when Hillwood PD's top detective catches a case. Comes with the territory."

"Whatever. Will you still make it in time for lunch?"

Yes! She bought it. Times like this almost made him feel sorry for deceiving her. Almost…

"Doubt it," he replied, "but definitely for dinner."

"Fine. On your way can you bring a bottle of white wine? I'm making chicken."

"For you, my love, anything!" 

* * *

It was a rush and she would be cutting it fine. Phoebe hurried back to her rented house where she quickly changed into more appropriate attire. She surmised that six hours on the road from Hillwood, in any direction, would take her to a heavily wooded area. Thus, for such an area in the middle of summer, she changed into dark blue cotton cargo shorts, a light-blue short-sleeved shirt made from thick cotton, and a denim waistcoat. She couldn't resist glancing into the mirror, and with a cheeky twist of her hip, a seductive arch of her back and a smoldering pout of her lips she could only admit that damn, she made blue look good. She didn't own any hiking boots, so a pair of sneakers was her best hope for the presumably rugged terrain, together with the thickest pair of socks she could find. Next, she stuffed a backpack with what she hoped was not a random mishmash of items: towel, toothbrush, hoodie, jacket, anything really that she thought would be helpful.

Her laptop too; she'd need it to read the flash drive after all. Plus the chargers...hopefully, her destination had heard of such concepts as electricity.

She checked her phone: five minutes until the driver's arrival. She noted with concern too that her phone's battery was at about fifty percent charge. This was odd; she could have sworn that it was well over seventy when she woke up after her most recent dalliance earlier that morning. It had been doing this for the past week already; maybe her battery was about to call it quits. Too bad she'd forgotten to buy a new one.

She gave the matter no further thought, for a horn sounded outside her door: her car, presumably. She opened the door and stood at the doorway for a look at the street. Outside stood a white Crown Vic, its engine still running, its windows heavily tinted. The driver lowered his window and turned his head to make eye contact with her. His expression suggested a curt "let's go already", thus subtly motivating her to hurry up. Which she did by hurriedly gathering her bag and laptop, before rushing outside, locking the front door and making a beeline for the vehicle. The driver didn't greet her; his only acknowledgement of her presence was popping the trunk for her to load her luggage. When she got into the backseat of the Crown Vic, the driver took off with no fuss. No small talk let alone an explanation of their destination. Not that trying to chat him up would have helped due to the partition between her and him. He only had one job: he drove.

She waited until they hit the smoother highway asphalt before opening the envelope. She was most intrigued by her mystery man as she fished for the first random piece of information: a photograph by the feel of it. Indeed it was. One look at it and she was in wide-eyed astonishment at the revelation.

The photo showed a man in soldier garb, seated on a rocky slab somewhere in the middle of some slum area, a rifle rested on his lap. His surroundings looked like the aftermath of a lengthy, particularly violent skirmish. Clearly, he was in pain. Clearly, he was exhausted and in desperate need of sleep, possibly medical attention. But somehow he was still able to force a sincere looking smile for the photographer. Dust and grime caked his face, but they diminished not one bit of the piercing intensity of his eyes. Those eyes reflected a lifetime's worth of melancholy, mixed with a tinge of joy at having survived whatever ordeal he had just faced. For all he had been through, he conveyed a sense of never intending to give up on life.

But that head, that distinct oblong profile, that tousled blonde hair. It was Arnold.

On the flip side of the photo, someone had written: _Lt Shortman. Fucking Legend of Unit 42!_

"Oh my...!" she whispered to herself, feeling herself becoming more intrigued by the second.


	3. Aftermath: Arnold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

He had the dream again. It had long stopped haunting him, but it refused to go away. It felt as though his deep subconscious still considered the event a significant one, even after seventeen years. He witnessed – again – in vivid picture quality and crystal-clear sound, how the group was assembled in the departure terminal at San Lorenzo, waiting to board their flight home. He witnessed how he was happily and eagerly talking with his family: Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Grandma. The family was whole again; _he_ was whole again.

Elsewhere, his classmates were chatting amongst themselves in both joy and relief. Gerald was recounting to Phoebe the details of the perils he had faced with the Green-Eyed People; Phoebe was listening with rapt concentration. The others were chatting idly about the preceding events. There may have been one or two embellishments here and there as Sid, Harold and Stinky tried to outdo one another in the magnitude of their bravery. Bob and Miriam were fussing over Olga, relieved that she had survived unscathed. Bob was however disappointed that his stash of beepers had to be sacrificed to facilitate her rescue, but hey…this was Olga after all, and no price was too high.

Helga was sitting alone in bitter, contemplative silence.

He noticed this and saw an opportunity. He would do this now or not at all. He excused himself from his family and walked over to her.

"Uh…Helga?" he faltered.

"What?" was her curt response.

"You mind if I sit with you?" he felt his resolve strengthening.

"Actually I do. But you're gonna take the seat anyway, Football Head." Nonchalant, but not averse. It was an opening at least.

Slightly emboldened, he took the seat and faced her: "I…feel…we need to talk." Kiss or no kiss, tender moment or not, she still cut an intimidating figure.

"Oh?" was her indifferent response. He couldn't tell whether it was real or feigned. But he had to press on. "I was wondering about our…encounter…at the temple," he started as he saw in her expression a momentary spark of interest in the conversation. "I mean…we haven't had any time since then to talk about…"

"Blame your parents," Helga interjected, not in anger but with indifference. "Makes sense you'd want to spend the time with them. You know with them going all Sleeping Beauty on you."

As blasé as that comment was, it was on the proverbial money. Since leaving the Green-Eyed People, he had been spending most of his waking moments with his family. But he had to continue: "Sorry about that. But I still want to talk about…"

She cut him off again, this time annoyed: "Yeah yeah, the _event_." Her tone suggested she didn't see the same significance in it that he did. "What about it?"

"It's just that…I want to know where we go from there. I mean, that wasn't another heat of the moment situation. Was it?" This was harder than expected. He had rehearsed his lines for this conversation with all contingent answers to any of her possible responses, and here she wasn't responding according to any of the permutations.

"Oh, Arnoldo. You sweet, innocent, naïve fool!" Here came the mockery. "Listen, Bucko, you really thought I would consider the event a personal milestone?" "Of course it was the heat of the moment. _Again!_ I was just relieved that you had found your parents and that this stupid, unhappy sequence of nonsensical events finally had a happy ending for at least one person! Notwithstanding of course the long hours with the local constabulary and the oh so joyous experiences at the consulate that was still to come because…."

"Dammit Helga, that's enough! I'm being serious!" he snapped, more loudly than he had expected.

That got her attention. In fact, it got everyone's attention. Everyone within earshot had turned to witness what the commotion was. Given the size of San Lorenzo's departure terminal, that meant everyone, period. Their collective gasps led to an awkward, expectant silence.

"Willickers, Arnold," Stinky's lazy drawl eventually weighed in, "yew sure must have some kind of death wish, on account of yew cussin' out Helga G. Pataki."

Next was Harold with his whiny, singsong teasing: "Oh look! The married couple is having a fight!"

The crowd started murmuring, no doubt offering opinions on the direction Arnold and Helga's conversation was about to take. Arnold looked at them, at the crowd, with an expression that threatened dire consequences if they didn't keep quiet. They all bought it and went silent, even the adults wishing to chastise him for his language.

Arnold surveyed the area: all eyes were still on him and Helga. It didn't matter anymore. Not the stares and not the murmurs. He turned back to Helga – who was now stunned silent – and continued, louder and undeterred: "It's just…I saw things that I wish I could unsee. I watched a man try to murder you and Gerald. I watched a man fall to his death."

Helga tried deflection. "Arnold," she said in an anxious whisper, "you're causing a scene and you're embarrassing yourself." Ah yes, classic Helga. Trying to wrest control of the situation away from him.

"So what?" louder still. "I've been humiliated on our local news for wearing a white bunny onesie. In public! I've danced on stage in a phallic banana costume! At your say-so! You think I'm now bothered by this small crowd?" He sounded almost angry.

"Yeah, I remember that onesie!" Curly piped. "You were so precious!"

"Not helping, Thaddeus!" Arnold growled sharply with the dirtiest look anyone had seen. Curly's resolve shriveled and he retreated.

Curly's distraction had not affected Helga. She still stood in quiet, doe-eyed incredulity, but Arnold couldn't afford to relent: "All of what happened in the jungle gave me perspective. I always thought you were cool to hang out with. And the chance of losing you, it frightened me. A whole lot. I remember that look in your eyes when we were hanging for our lives on the bridge. And just like that…it was like all the pieces of a puzzle suddenly falling into place." His voice softened as his hands found hers: "I feared I might never get this chance. I realized that deep down I actually liked you. Like, _like you_ like you."

Her eyes had started welling. A flush of crimson had claimed her cheeks. He wasn't faring much better, but he wasn't done yet: "That's why…if you'll have me, I'd be happy…no, no, more than happy…to be…your…boyfriend…. If…uhm…that's ok with you…" This was feeling more like a proposal.

"OMG, Nadine," Rhonda stage whispered to her best friend, "we may be witnessing a historic event!"

Fighting back tears and blushes, Helga marshaled some measure of composure: "Arnold, I believe my hearing may be failing. For my benefit and yours," she was trying hard to keep her tone as neutral and nonchalant as possible, "please tell me that I heard you correctly." Arnold hesitated, then by way of an answer, he planted a quick peck on her lips. The dumfounded gasps from those witnessing seemed to suck in all the air inside the terminal.

"That dude's crazy!" Curly exclaimed, the irony of his statement apparently lost on him.

"He's dead!" Sid quietly corrected. "Why, Arnold, why?"

Stinky eulogized: "Let us bow our heads at the loss of our great friend."

Eugene at least seemed willing to back Arnold: "That's it, Arnold! Go for it!"

Now Helga was flustered, her eyelids batting many times per second. Then, she stared at Arnold for several eternities compressed into about ten seconds. Her eventual response was to reach out and cup his cheeks in her hands. "My football head!" she exclaimed tenderly as she pulled his mouth to hers for a longer, more tender – but still PG-appropriate for all the adults present – kiss. "My beautiful, brave, caring, noble footballhead!" she continued, punctuating the adjectives with quick pecks of her own on his cheeks and forehead, suddenly not caring just who knew of her love for Arnold Shortman (Old Betsy would deal with anyone who had a problem). She then pressed her lips against his for another sustained tender kiss. Arnold didn't resist; instead, he cupped his own hands on Helga's cheeks and met her intimacy halfway. Inside he was giddy with ecstasy.

Harold would have blurted out some disparagement at the sight, but he was denied. The crowd erupted in spontaneous applause, drowning out his intentions. Arnold's grandparents were especially loud with their cheers. Gertie even let out a loud: "You go, Eleanor!" Miles and Stella were gobsmacked at the audacity of modern tweens, but Phil and Gertie held them back from intervening. Phoebe and Gerald were smiling in equal parts relief and approval. Bob, Miriam and Olga were simply agape at what was unfolding.

The kissing couple either didn't hear the commotion or didn't care one jot.

A beeping sound from the PA system announced that the gate for their flight was now open and they could commence boarding. It did so again.

And again.

And again.

That's when Arnold Phillip Shortman, age 28, realized that his alarm had gone off and it was Sunday morning, 6:00, time to wake up. There were errands to run. 

* * *

Phoebe was impressed. Even by Brainy's superior standards for gathering intel, the dossier he had provided was a masterpiece.

He'd found her almost the moment she started her journalism career. She had barely settled at her desk when she received the first of his many lucrative phone calls. He'd offered to be her CI, free of charge. What a bargain; he had the uncanny ability to gather impossible-to-find facts, figures, incriminating evidence and other materials that eluded even the best investigators. Thus the rookie fast became the paper's top performer, or at least she would have had the editors and bean counters not decided on the path of maximum ad revenue above all else.

He was there even when she went freelance, and as always his intel was righteous. A large portion of her books was due to his information that held up against even the most rigorous scrutiny and fact-checking.

It bugged Phoebe that Brainy was also invited to Arnold's fateful party seventeen years ago. She could recall seeing him on the roof before the event: just how did he survive? His answers would be some variation of either "Not important" or "This is not about me." Eventually, she stopped pursuing the matter any further: the quality of his services surpassed her curiosity.

The dossier on Arnold was comprehensive, almost too much for her to digest. She had to bullet-point it for the sake of compendiousness:

Family killed in tragic explosion _("Public knowledge, Brainy!")_

Moved to San Lorenzo; Dual Citizenship granted _("So that's where he went!")_

Psych Evaluation: Emotionally inert. _("Dr. Bliss couldn't help, I guess…")_

Amazingly no criminal record at all. _("Good for you, Arnold!")_

Involved extensively in humanitarian work. _("That's more like the Arnold I knew!")_

Graduated high school with distinction. _("Wow! What motivated you?")_

Relocated to the US. Enlisted with Army. _("What..?")_

Exemplary service record. _("Decided to be all you could be, huh?")_

Recommended for Army Rangers; Passed RASP1. _(What. The. Actual….!?")_

Active in several theatres including the Middle East and the Horn of Africa

2 Distinguished Service Crosses; 1 Medal of Honour _("How…?")_

Honorable Discharge at age 26. _("Why?")_

Current activity: Bounty Hunter _("I swear, Brainy, if you're making this up…")_

Currently living in…? _("What? He's back in the USA?")_

She silently gulped at the revelations. There was no way he could be the same sweet-natured, benevolent boy she remembered from childhood. She had read information on him known possibly only to the DOJ or Department of Defence, maybe even the International Criminal Court. And here she was, on her way to meet him after seventeen years. 

* * *

Arnold always noted that his most dominant memory from the past was of Helga. Not his parents, not his grandparents, but Helga. Could she really have meant that much to him? Granted, he had barely known his parents and had shared more misadventures with Helga than with his grandparents, but he still couldn't fathom how she was the single most enduring figure in his dreams.

Be that as it may, her memory is what spurred him on with his humanitarian work in San Lorenzo while still at school. And when the humanitarian work no longer seemed fulfilling, her memory proved the catalyst for him to bid farewell to Eduardo return to the USA and join the Army through his dual citizenship. The fear of having her disappointed even from within the afterlife was all motivation he needed to endure basic training and his tours of duty.

Helga.

Helga.

Helga.

She was as big an influence in death as she was alive. 

* * *

The transcript made for an especially engrossing read, enough for the road trip not to seem like the tedious slog that it was. Apparently, Arnold was being court-martialled for Conduct Unbecoming and his defense attorney was questioning a witness. Phoebe gathered that "RS" designated the defense attorney, while "JK" was the witness.

** _RS: _ ** _Please state your name for the record._

** _JK: _ ** _Captain Jonathan Knowles, Squad leader of Unit 42._

** _RS: _ ** _Captain Knowles, would you please describe the events preceding and occurring on July 13?_

** _JK: _ ** _Well we received what we believed to be reliable intelligence of a Boko Haram cell appropriating a sizeable weapons cache somewhere in Asmara, near where we were stationed._

** _RS: _ ** _And what exactly was the significance of this event?_

** _JK: _ ** _We had Khaled Aziz, a high-ranking Boko Haram general and Abdul Ahmed, one of the biggest arms dealers in the Horn of Africa, together in the same location at the same time. We had a prime opportunity to set back Boko Haram operations in the area very significantly. We had a date and a time: July 13th, 1400. We had a location: an apartment building in Abba Shawl._

** _RS: _ ** _And so, what happened on the day of the 13th?_

** _JK: _ ** _When Unit 42 got the green light, we moved into the building. Right into an ambush as it turned out. The lobby had been rigged with explosives. Not enough to destroy the building, but large enough for the rubble to trap us. Lieutenant Shortman would have been last in the building but the blasts sealed the exits and left him outside. Then all hell broke loose._

** _RS: _ ** _Would you elaborate please, Captain Knowles?_

** _JK: _ ** _The enemy had set up a machine gun nest on the roof of the apartment opposite the street. We're talking a 50-caliber machine gun, tons of AK's. They started strafing our location; bullets were flying all over the place and I even recall an RPG round coming our way too._

** _RS: _ ** _And were you convinced your team would survive the encounter?_

** _JK: _ ** _Not at all. We were pinned down, under sustained fire with little cover. I personally had taken an AK round to the leg and another in the chest. Sergeant MacPherson and Corporal Gomez also caught shrapnel from the blast, and they were incapacitated as well. Basically, we were sitting ducks._

** _RS: _ ** _Can you explain what happened next?_

** _JK: _ ** _Well, Lieutenant Shortman was outside but was somehow able to remain out of the enemy's line of sight because they were more focused on our location. Plus, he retained radio contact._

** _RS: _ ** _And how is that fact helpful in these proceedings?_

** _JK: _ ** _It's helpful in that he kept me abreast of his subsequent actions, meaning I can truthfully and under oath say the following. Lieutenant Shortman was able to remain unsighted while moving towards the enemy structure. He then lobbed two grenades on the roof which at least distracted the nest's occupants because the firing ceased afterward. I then heard how he entered the building and engaged its occupants. I heard several gunshots over the radio for about two minutes._

** _RS: _ ** _Please explain what happened next._

** _JK: _ ** _Lieutenant Shortman resumed radio contact, confirming that he had cleared out the building and that he was calling in an extraction for the squad._

** _RS: _ ** _Was that the end of your encounter?_

** _JK: _ ** _No. After Lieutenant Shortman called in the extraction, backup for the nest team arrived in a convoy, presumably to finish the job. He was…_

** _RS: _ ** _Captain Knowles, by "He", do you mean Lieutenant Shortman?_

** _JK: _ ** _Yes sir. Lieutenant Shortman was able to commandeer the machine gun on the roof and use it to repel the reinforcements. He saved us. He saved the whole squad. Singlehandedly and facing near-impossible odds. When we were eventually extracted, only then did we see the extent of Lieutenant Shortman's wounds. The medics counted five entry wounds across his shoulders, flank and legs, plus back at the infirmary, the medics pulled shrapnel from him that lodged dangerously close to his lungs. This I know from reading his prognosis._

** _RS: _ ** _Very good, Captain. You've provided a compelling context for the real reason we're all at this court-martial. Lieutenant Shortman stands accused of striking a Senior Officer, one Colonel Charles Rawlins, an action witnessed by seven officers. Captain, what would you say to those witnesses?_

** _JK: _ ** _I'd provide them with even further context. As I mentioned earlier, we acted on intel presented to us as reliable, that ultimately almost got us killed. A subsequent investigation into the matter revealed that the intel had firstly not originated from any of our known and reliable informants._

** _RS: _ ** _And secondly…?_

** _JK: _ ** _And secondly, the intel was not corroborated and vetted properly, maybe not at all. No reports, no photographic evidence, no satellite images, nothing. Colonel Rawlins was in charge of the vetting process but neglected his duties by handing us uncorroborated intelligence. Under military guidelines, his actions constitute Dereliction of Duty. Somehow Lieutenant Shortman caught wind of this revelation and went to confront the Colonel. What happened next is as the prosecution's witnesses testified: The Lieutenant punching out the Colonel, knocking out two of his teeth if I remember the one's testimony…_

** _RS: _ ** _One final question, Captain. As Lieutenant Shortman's direct superior, how would you characterize him?_

** _JK: _ ** _Simply put, Lieutenant Arnold Shortman is the bravest, fiercest soldier I've ever had the pleasure of leading. His resourcefulness and determination under fire are beyond reproach. He's a tactical genius, always finding a way out of even the most hopeless situations at very short notice. Over and above that, he is a good person, period, loyal to his friends and generally a benevolent soul. He is an asset to Unit 42 and the US Army would be so much the poorer without him._

"The more things change…" Phoebe sighed to herself, recalling the Karr epigram. Arnold had gone through hell many times over, but on the evidence presented, deep down he remained the kindly boy she remembered from PS 118. Her initial intrigue in him was slowly becoming a genuine desire to meet him. 

* * *

The court-martial presented a dilemma to the Army. On the one hand, Lieutenant Arnold Shortman had shown courage and valor above and beyond under fire, only to undo it all by striking a superior officer. On the other hand, testimony for the defense revealed that said superior officer was notorious for not being thorough in his duties, and it was after all his lack of oversight that put Unit 42 in jeopardy in the first place. The solution was the Colonel being dishonorably discharged, while the Lieutenant received an honorable discharge with a full Three-Star General's pension, plus a Congressional Medal of Honour to sweeten the deal further.

Arnold Phillip Shortman returned to the USA. Asmara made him want to reconnect with whatever remaining family he had. Spurred on by those events, he reached out to his cousin Arnie, who he learned had moved to an obscure town in the Northwest. Their reunion was not as painful as either had feared, mainly because both had had seventeen years to develop a profound appreciation of blood relations. It helped Arnold that the county was absolutely gorgeous with its rugged mountains, verdant forests, not to mention its remote location; he decided to make this area his new permanent home.

However, the dream of a bucolic idyll evaporated when he realized the county was well outside the jurisdiction of any given metropole and also within close proximity of the Canadian border, thus making it a destination of choice for big city bail jumpers – who almost always were wanted for heinous, violent crimes. Still, he saw an opportunity: Why not apply to be a bounty hunter? That proved to be the easy part as the county only required that applicants be in possession of a non-zero heart rate.

Once licensed, he found that performing his duties was the easier part. Most of the fugitives banked on the residents being too afraid to confront them and were not prepared when Arnold arrived to collar them. Sometimes he only needed a few calmly spoken sentences to make them believe that he was the devil incarnate, thus convincing them to come quietly and avoid trouble. Those that didn't, required other forms of persuasion: oftentimes a swift elbow to the jaw proved sufficient, though one or two did require several kicks to the crotch as well and one even received a gunshot to the leg for his belligerence.

Gradually the fugitives started looking elsewhere for a hideout; the reputation of the ex-Army bounty hunter was enough to deter all but the foolhardiest, who would eventually find themselves back to awaiting trial from the comfort of their cells just like those who came before them.

Despite Arnold's fearsome reputation among the criminal element, he was on amicable terms with the town's residents. He didn't go out of his way to be anyone's friend, but his cordial mannerisms meant that no-one considered him an adversary either.

Two years had passed since then and different circumstances notwithstanding, he felt that his quest for an ordinary world was nearing its end. 

* * *

"Hey Vasquez! Girlfriend's GPS shows she's done traveling!"

Vasquez's dinner at home with his wife had been interrupted by this phone call, so naturally, the loud mention of "girlfriend" in her immediate proximity was – to put it mildly – potentially catastrophic.

"Idiot! You wanna blow your cover? Not so loud!" Vasquez made a show of his rebuke before covering his phone's mouthpiece and mouthing to his wife: "Damn rookies."

She looked up at him, indifferent to the explanation, before continuing with her meal.

He excused himself to continue the call in more privacy. "Are you certain about that?" he sounded more composed.

"Absolutely. No movement for two hours. Looks like she ain't going anywhere. She's at some loner's house some way out of…hey Yuri, what's the name of this hick town again?"

"Forget that! Why aren't you moving in on her?"

"Oh Christ, Vasquez! We've been on the road all fucking day! We're exhausted so we're staying at a motel. She'll still be there in the morning."

"Idiot! Move in now, while she's tired and her guard is down! Remember, the suspect is armed and should be considered extremely dangerous. Exercise ultimate caution. Deadly force may be unavoidable." He emphasized his instructions to make sure his wife could hear him issuing them.

"Screw you, Vasquez! We kill her now, then what? Dispose of the body at short notice, while pretty much out on feet? Then drive another six hours back while still tired? We've been up all day, no way we'll have the energy for all of that, with or without a plan!"

"I am so glad we're talking over a secure line," Detective Vasquez began his admonishment. "Otherwise you'd have broadcast our names to God knows who."

"Like you're fucking top of the class," the voice countered. "Santalov asks you to shadow the woman, to find out what she knows, and you go and stick your dick in her! That complicates matters, and you know how the boss feels about complications. Say we do it your way, right now, and someone finds the body and links her back to you. Can you say 'compromised'? What about 'loose end'? We're saving your ass as well over here, so no input from you."

"Fine!" Vasquez grumbled bitterly, having been reminded of the balance of power in Santalov's organization. He ended the call with much indignation.

"Trouble at the office, dear?" his wife asked with a sardonic voice from the dining room.

"Nothing I can't handle," he replied as he rejoined her. "Just a slight disagreement over tactics. It's been sorted out now."

At least he hoped it was and those idiots would get the job done so that his wife would never hear about the affair!

All that remained after that was Phoebe's spook. That morning, after Phoebe left the alley, the detective entered to confront the guy. He found the area deserted, no signs that anyone had ever been there. He had to admit that it was spooky; the entrance he took was the sole entrance to the alley, so her man must have simply vanished. Even the local surveillance cameras would later reveal nothing to suggest that anyone other than Phoebe and he had entered and exited. Oh well, he mused, he'd be found and dealt with eventually. 

* * *

The more Phoebe perused through the meticulously detailed Arnold file, the more she believed that Brainy had to have a personal investment in the matter. There had to be more to his assistance in bringing down Santalov than merely his civic duty; as far as she could gather, he provided his services exclusively to her and always refused any payment.

The journey had been interrupted by two stops for fuel, food and bathroom breaks. Other than that, she was so absorbed into her research that she hardly noticed the passage of time or scenery during her trip. Eventually, they pulled into the driveway of a remote lodge surrounded by pines and firs. It was here that the driver surprised her out of her Zen-like studying with his first and only words: "You're here." She had just spent the entire journey poring over Arnold's history; she hadn't even looked at the flash drive. As soon as she alighted with her luggage, the driver and his Crown Vic were gone.

The building itself was a sturdy structure of grey stone; from the outside, it at least looked every bit like the stereotypical hunting lodge. She feared that inside lurked many a stuffed animal head, a fanatic belief in the Second Amendment and a pervasive aversion to humanity. _What the hell have I stepped into,_ she wondered. As she made her way to the front door, she heard music playing inside at a high volume, the possibility of which she attributed to the severe lack of neighbors. Bracing herself, she knocked on the front door with as authoritative a "HELLO!" as she could muster.

She heard the music go silent, then movement inside, then the door being unlocked. It opened to reveal a man wearing faded jeans and a loosely hanging chequered shirt. He looked about 5'9", of well-above-average build with hardened facial features. But that oblong head with its unruly blonde hair was unmistakable.

They stared at one another, eyes gradually widening in recognition.

"Phoebe?" Arnold eventually broke the silence. "Phoebe Heyerdahl?"

And the best response she could manage: "Hey Arnold."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note(s): I had a fun time trying to figure out how Phoebe and Brainy would have evolved given their personalities in the series and the tragedy they've had to endure. Making Brainy the shadowy figure you encountered in the previous chapter felt like the only logical choice. As for Phoebe, I figured that she'd want to use her faculties to pursue justice in one way or another. Her personal life might be another story entirely.
> 
> As for making Arnold a soldier...I had a friend at high school, a shortish guy who — lack of oblong head notwithstanding — would have been the Arnold of any group of friends. After high school, he emigrated to the UK because he had dual residency because at least one of his parents was a UK resident. Fast-forward ten years and I find out he's a SAS soldier. This was my inspiration for making Arnold an effective soldier.


	4. A Not-Unhappy Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.
> 
> Disclaimer #2: The lyrics referenced in this chapter belong to Bruce Springsteen.

After their awkward greeting, Phoebe wanted to get straight to the matter and started rambling off about Russians and explosions and rampant inconsistencies and a man called Vitaly Santalov. Arnold cut her short by pointing out that they were still standing at the front doorway. He followed up by asking her (1) how she found him and (2) where in the area she was staying. That's when she realized that Brainy, for all his meticulous planning, had mentioned nothing about accommodation.

"Uh, actually…I-I…" she stammered for an answer but found not one approaching.

"You didn't plan that far, did you?" his voice was deeper and raspier, the product of seventeen years' worth of growth and circumstance. His tone was flat, non-judgemental. He decided to skip the first question for now.

"I didn't plan that far," replied Phoebe Heyerdahl, now acutely aware of the situation into which Brainy had thrust her.

"Look, we're a good few miles away from the town and the motel. Plus I'm in no mood to drive anywhere right now. You can stay here for the night. I reckon there's some catching up to do anyway."

Phoebe realized that stood in front of her was not the naïve young boy with whom she'd shared a childhood a lifetime ago. The man in front of her was colder, more analytical, more distant. She was convinced that if not for their history, he'd have sent her on her way by now instead of offering her quarter. She understood now why Brainy had insisted that she meet with Arnold face-to-face: she had the best chance of unearthing the Arnold who would help his friends regardless of their circumstances.

She also noted – purely for her own reference, no more and no less – that his wiry frame and athletic build were not without appeal.

"You've twisted my arm hard enough, so I accept your hospitality with much gratitude," she answered in genuine thankfulness that sounded teasing.

He stepped aside and allowed her to enter. As she did, she took the opportunity to observe the interior properly. Her first impression was of a modest but comfortable living space. The front door led to a lounge area that comprised a single sturdy-looking couch and an equally sturdy coffee table, both facing a large fireplace. Her eyes then focussed on the adjacent open-plan kitchen with its gas stove and oven, retro-looking fridge and equally retro-looking sink. On a spacious counter she spied a fruit basket, a…holstered pistol (?)…and…was that a grenade next to it?

"Um, Arnold? Just what is the story behind _that_?" she tentatively asked while pointing at the counter and its contents. Arnold followed her finger to the counter and blithely commented: "Well, fruit is a good source of vitamins and fiber."

"Not that, _that_!" Phoebe kept pointing at the M67 fragmentation grenade on the counter. Arnold, not a whit abashed, casually strolled to pick up the item and commented in a calm tone that did nothing to assuage Phoebe's nerves. "Well you see, this is my little problem eliminator," he explained while tossing the grenade lightly before pressing down on the plug lid to reveal a small flame. He added with a wry smile: "Especially useful when any of the pilot lights go out, don't you think?"

Phoebe Heyerdahl was livid inside at how convincingly Arnold had sold the lighter as an actual grenade, scaring her witless. She wanted to tear into him, chastise him from a dizzy height on what was and what wasn't appropriate humor within a given context. Instead, she muttered: "You jackass!"

"I know," he conceded somewhat unapologetically but still smiling. "Listen, I was about to start dinner. You OK with salmon?"

Now Phoebe wanted to tell him that the unplanned road trip and its associated low quantity and quality of proper nourishment had left her famished to the point where even old shoe leather would be a gourmet option. To convey that sentiment, she replied: "Sure."

"Wow, that was eager! Sounds like it was a long trip."

"You have no idea! Six hours in the back of a Crown Vic is no fun. Luckily I had your life story to keep me occupied."

Now it was Arnold's turn to be surprised: "Say what?"

And Phoebe's turn for a wry smile of her own: "I'll tell you after dinner. Meanwhile, can I freshen up somewhere?"

"Y-Yeah," Arnold's composure returned. "Bathroom's down the passage, first door on the left. Feel free to use the shower if you want. Towels are in the cupboard."

Phoebe Heyerdahl needed no further prompting and trotted down the passage: "Showering!" 

* * *

On a bench, in a park, in the city of Hillwood, two figures were in the middle of a conversation.

"Driver confirmed half-hour ago that he dropped her off. The rest is up to her."

"And you're sure this guy is your man for the job?"

"Positive."

"A military burnout. The hero of Asmara, now a lowly bounty hunter. And you're positive."

"It took some time, but I have faith that his psych profile and skillset are where they need to be."

"Faith is for religion, son."

"Consider this. His military record shows him excelling in whatever mission he was in. You said so yourself: Hero of Asmara. Christ, that story is a legend among the Rangers."

"So what? Could have been a death wish. Could be he was hoping for suicide by enemy. Could be he failed, and the result was a happy accident."

"All due respect, that's bullshit. Look what he did as a bounty hunter. Bail jumpers now avoid his town like the plague. He's more respected there than the Sheriff's Department."

"So he's got a hard-on for being someone's white knight."

"Now you're just being a douche. You once said you considered him family. He never saw your face, but he was always kind to you even if you didn't always pay your rent on time. That's what you said, isn't it?

The older figure was rendered momentarily silent, but the younger wasn't done: "'Family', right? Is that the reason you paid his hospital bills and fast-tracked his move to San Lorenzo?"

"Look, son, the fact that I'm helping you at all should tell you that I see _some_ merit in your…whatever you call this plan of yours."

The younger admitted: "Think of it as the most dangerous Make-A-Wish experience ever, but what the hell, our guy's long overdue for some closure. Maybe a crack at being happy again."

"And it just so happens to involve this Santalov asshole?"

"Correct. Santalov ripped the heart out of this city and has been sitting pretty ever since. The pieces have never been in a better position than now to take him down."

"Good luck with that, Brainy. And let's hope this plays out as you predicted."

"You worry too much, Smith."

With that, the younger figure took his leave. 

* * *

Phoebe Heyerdahl's second shower of the day, while not as luxurious as the one at the hotel, was just as refreshing. Once showered, toweled off and clothed again, she remembered her phone and its recent excessive battery consumption. She checked it: ten percent charge. How? The phone had sat unused for the entire journey! Regardless, it needed charging.

"Um, Arnold?" Phoebe shouted towards the kitchen area. "Can I perhaps persuade you to let me charge my phone? The battery's close to dying."

From the kitchen, over sounds of chopping: "Check the study! There should be an unused socket somewhere!"

The study, located opposite the bathroom, was a spartan affair. It comprised a desktop PC hooked up to three monitors, a printer/scanner and a router, all set on a desk of minimalist design; nearby stood a police scanner. Tools of the bounty hunting trade, Phoebe reasoned. All of this in a relatively small space with no indication of clutter: typical Arnold. Phoebe reflected on how effective he was at making the most of any given amount of space as she recalled his childhood room as a model of maximizing one's living quarters. True to his word, there was a slot for her charger and soon her phone was replenishing its power supply.

Arnold was still scurrying about in the kitchen, so Phoebe thought not to interrupt him and to explore the remaining rooms. His bedroom at the far end of the passage provided no new insights: just a three quarter size bed, a set of cupboards, and was that a gun safe next to the cupboards? OK, so maybe there was some insight to be had.

The final room was next to the study, but its door was closed. Not locked, as Phoebe discovered by trying the door handle. That room contained the most advanced looking music system Phoebe had seen. High-end everything: Turntable, music server, amplifier, speakers as well as other equipment the use of which she couldn't yet determine. To say nothing of the massive collection of vinyl displayed in banks of shelves and the sound dampening on the walls. If ever proof was needed of Arnold's love of music, this setup was it.

"I see you found my echo chamber," Arnold stated from right behind her.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry!" she scrambled for the apology as she turned to face him.

"No harm," was his reassurance. "I just happen to like my music." As if she hadn't made that connection yet.

"Interesting," said an impressed Phoebe. "What do you listen to?" she asked before immediately wondering how on earth that information would benefit her.

He answered anyway as he entered the room to retrieve the setup's remote control: "Basically anything that I find appealing." Then, as he switched on everything: "Mostly I just set the server for random playback and take it from there."

The server selected its song and shortly thereafter Bruce Springsteen was performing "Human Touch" for the two. The speakers bellowed out The Boss's opening lines in pin-sharp detail:

"_You and me we were the pretenders_  
We let it all slip away  
In the end what you don't surrender  
Well the world just strips away

_Girl ain't no kindness in the face of strangers_  
Ain't gonna find no miracles here  
Well you can wait on your blessings darlin'  
But I got a deal for you right here"

And just as quickly Arnold killed the song, but from his and Phoebe's awkward stares at each other, it was obvious that both of them had taken in the coincidental significance of the lyrics. 

* * *

_These city slickers sure are a noisy bunch!_

This was the thought currently occupying Maureen Thompson's mind. Maureen Thompson owned the bar in which this particular interaction was taking place, an interaction she was observing from behind the counter. The bar was a less than savory establishment situated at the edge of the town. It's status as such counted in its favor as it was the meeting place of choice for equally unsavory characters to discuss and plan several dubious enterprises. Such was the case at that particular table.

Two tables seated twelve mobsters, definitely Eastern Bloc judging by their accents – Maureen was an old hand reading people and an older hand at understanding Russian. The haggling was intense, the drinking more so. Eventually, after much expletive-laden language, a plan was in place and had been agreed upon before the tables settled up (with a most generous tip) and left for wherever they were heading.

Maureen Thompson usually paid no attention to such plotting and planning – being an accessory carried no appeal for her – because usually the process entailed a degree of discreetness, but the amount of liquor consumed by the parties concerned had put paid to that notion. The whole table had whispered as though they learned to do so in a helicopter.

Thus she became aware of a…gee, could she really call it an operation? A raid at dawn tomorrow, at a lodge five miles out of town? Only one person they could be talking about: Arnold. Maybe they were looking for payback for all their comrades he sent back to jail. It didn't matter because the bottom line was that Arnold could be in trouble. So she performed the civic duty and dialed 911.

"911. What is your emergency?"

"Hilda, it's Maureen! I need your help!"

"How so?" came Hilda's voice, hinting strongly that her shift was close to ending, thus seemingly oblivious to Maureen's urgency.

"Some men may be planning an attack at Arnold's place at dawn."

"Uh-huh…do you know this for certain?"

"Well, I heard a group of twelve men talk in my bar about hitting a lodge outside of town. Russian guys, mean-looking!"

"You know, Maureen, there's this thing called profiling. How do you know they weren't a hunting party that stumbled into your bar because they didn't know better?"

"You know, _Hilda_, I've been bartending for twenty-five years. I know how to read people. I'm telling you it sounded like they were up to no good!"

"Based on what? Hearsay?"

"Sometimes that's enough!"

"Well do you have any descriptions? Where they were headed? Where they're staying? How about a vehicle description and license plate number? Anything at all to assist? Because let me tell you: 'they sounded like they were up to no good' won't impress the Sheriff or his deputies."

And so Maureen Thompson's civic duty unraveled. "Fine!" she huffed. "I stand by what I heard! Use it or don't use it!" Then she hung up.

The woman named Hilda was left to process what she had just heard. _Twelve men…possibly Russian Mob…with a beef against Arnold…yeah, get in line, guys…sounds like a fair fight. Still…_

She opened a channel on her switchboard: "Sheriff, come in, please. We just got this crazy call on 911…" 

* * *

Dinner was surprisingly not a tense affair. Phoebe felt almost disappointed, seated with Arnold in the lounge with each of them enjoying Arnold's surprisingly good epicurean skills. He'd prepared grilled salmon and a salad. She had arrived expecting Arnold to be surly and withdrawn given his history, but his act of mischief with the lighter suggested otherwise. She dared to believe that he was appreciative of her company.

The conversation started lightly enough: small talk and a general outline of each other's past and present vocations. As Phoebe became more comfortable and less hungry – the salmon did not last long on her plate – in Arnold's presence, she broached the subject of the explosion and its aftermath and observed as his demeanor became impassive. It remained that way even as she divulged her investigations and their revelations.

"And in the course of your investigations you just so happen to uncover my home address and military history, right?" his tone was more flat than suspicious.

"Actually, you have Brainy to thank for that. I personally had accepted that you'd dropped off the radar, probably for good."

"Brainy…" Arnold repeated the name as he ruminated on the mystery of Brainy's survival and his stake in Phoebe's undertaking.

"Lest you forget, Arnold, he's the one who provided the material on you. It was uncanny, even disconcerting, the information he has on you. Education, service history, current employment. I swear he has a direct line with the Pentagon or DOJ or something. I mean, isn't this supposed to be classified?"

"Probably," Arnold couldn't be sure. "I'm not really surprised that he could get all this info. Back in the day, the guy was able to show up anywhere, anytime, at will. Remember Wheezin' Ed, how he just appeared on that island? Who knows what he's seen and what secrets he's picked up over the years?"

"Yes indeed," Phoebe concurred.

"I'm convinced he's not human, not entirely anyway. Kinda like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable. Superpowered…only it's not obvious. I mean one time Helga pitched him off a speeding train. He was back at school the next day like nothing ever happened!"

"Oh wow!" Phoebe was taken aback at the revelations that Brainy might be immortal and the Helga at one time had committed attempted homicide.

"Now, about this Santalov character…"

"Yes?" was her cautious reply.

"Question," he continued. "Don't get me wrong, I think your goals are…admirable. But how do I fit in the picture? Why did you endure such a long commute to find me?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. All I had to work with was what Brainy told me. Someone who could help me in my…endeavour." Then, in a poor imitation of Brainy's wheezing voice: "In ways I cannot, quote-unquote."

She saw a faint hint of a smile creep on his face, only for him to stifle it. This was her opening, so she took a deep breath while organizing the courage to ask: "So how come you're all out here and not in Hillwood?"

His impassiveness vanished suddenly, replaced by an expression of emotional discomfort. He answered anyway: "Look, I need to be blunt. Hillwood is dead to me."

The answer was a broadside of note. She stared at him with an unspoken appeal for further explanation. He interpreted her expression as such and continued: "No family, no more close friends."

"No more Helga?"

That one stung: Phoebe wondered whether she'd pushed too hard.

"Excuse me?" his voice projected his incredulity.

"She was my friend too, you know? My best friend. Whom you'd come to love. But so much that her death was enough to cause you to withdraw completely from society? What about your family? Your friends?"

His answer hinted at preparedness for just this question: "I didn't see my family die, or my friends. But the last thing I saw before the building collapsed was Helga's frightened expression. I saw just how helpless I was to save her. Then after the collapse, I listened to all those fading voices calling for help that I couldn't give."

His voice faltered momentarily but he quickly caught it: "I…remember going to the memorial and the dirty looks I got from parents and family. Deep down I knew they were right. I dragged their kids to San Lorenzo to get kidnapped and almost killed. Then I tried to apologize and only managed to finish the job."

Yes, the memorial. Phoebe was comatose at the time and only heard about it long after the fact, about how Arnold instigated an altercation that ended with the arrest of Bob and Olga Pataki. Conclusive prove to Hillwood that Arnold Shortman was bad news to all who met him.

Phoebe motioned to intervene, but Arnold continued. Sadness and cynicism had now taken over his tone: "Who'd blame them, right? They were on the roof because I invited them. I should have been there with them! All because…all because…"

Phoebe reflected that this blonde football-headed man was spilling his deepest darkest thoughts for the first time in many years. Brainy's facts and figures, as thoroughly researched as they were, lacked the aspect of humanity, of Arnold's motivations. "All because of what, Arnold?" she asked as non-pryingly as she could.

"All because I tried to do right by them!" More emotion was creeping into his voice: "All my life I'm this good kid on the block, the one who helps everyone, the one who gets along with everyone. Good ol' benevolent Arnold. One accident later, I'm the most hated kid in the city."

"Arnold, you don't believe that! The court ruled it to be just that: an accident!" Phoebe tried to reason with him.

But the floodgates were wide open: "You were still in a coma, so you wouldn't have known. As far as Hillwood was concerned, I might just as well have bombed the building myself. Didn't matter what the court ruled. Nobody was about to believe otherwise! That's why I chose to move to San Lorenzo, where I wouldn't be reminded daily of my fuck-up. Fine load of good that did. The nightmares wouldn't go away, even after I volunteered to help at the remote villages and the Green-Eyed People. But none of that was enough and the nightmares stayed."

"Hence your decision to join the military?"

"Yeah…" his voice trailed off on that one.

"There's more to it than that, isn't there?" Her superior observational skills were on display.

"I don't know," he was trying to phrase his answer properly. "It was a lot of things. To show the world that they were wrong about me. A big 'fuck you' to those who accused me of all those deaths. Maybe even a chance to die with glory." He then noticed Phoebe's horrified expression and quickly added: "I wasn't suicidal! But I wasn't that keen on living either. So I always volunteered for the most dangerous assignments. But…"

"But…? What, you had an epiphany of sorts?"

"Of sorts. I was exposed to carnage that made The Sunset Arms look like nothing. I saw civilians scared out of their minds. In them, I saw Helga on the roof all over again, only this time I felt I could actually help. Then it happened. The Football Head. The damn Football Head who wanted to help everyone…be their friend…he returned."

Phoebe attempted some interpolation: "So then, more rescue missions, more risky situations, hence the myriad medals. Maybe even a new reason to keep living."

"Exactly," he concurred in visible admiration of her astuteness. "Also…it just stopped hurting. The memories stopped hurting. I mean the dreams are still there, but they don't bother me anymore."

"What dreams?"

"About San Lorenzo and about Helga and my parents…. anything to do with what got me here. Look, I've made my peace with them."

"So why not return to Hillwood?" she pressed on.

"New beginnings I guess," was the answer. "I just wanted to divorce myself from the past."

"Did that include me?" she asked, not sure if she'd like the answer. "Did you think I'd hate you too?"

That was her most pointed question so far. He looked as though he was staring down a firing squad. Before he could attempt an answer, Phoebe rose to her feet and stepped over to him, where she spun around and stood with her back towards him.

"Phoebe?" the gesture left Arnold quizzical. "What's happening?"

"Arnold, I need you to indulge me this one time. Can you please do this one thing for me? No questioning."

"OK?" He didn't mean to answer that quickly; he blurted out his answer with very little hesitation.

"Can you please hold me around my waist?"

OK, that was strange, but he did agree to no questions. He stood up behind her and proceeded to wrap his arms around her waist in a loose, uncertain embrace.

"Tighter, please," she insisted.

So he tightened his grasp.

"Tighter."

Arnold did as he was requested and then realized that his head was now pressed against the nape of her neck. It wasn't that he was uncomfortable in this position so close to her soft hair, her freshly-showered scent, her delicate frame. It wasn't necessarily arousing him, but her presence was making him regret his solitary life. He'd had his share of one-night stands while growing up, but those women understood with him that the act was purely physical, of mutual carnal benefit. Not for the longest time had he been able to talk this freely about his deepest personal thoughts with anyone, much less with someone he hadn't seen in almost two decades after she'd blithely waltzed through his door.

Even so, he wondered what Phoebe Heyerdahl's game was.

Phoebe Heyerdahl's game was one of recollection. She had been unconscious for most of the immediate aftermath of the explosion. Her subconscious, however, had made her aware of a presence, of a tight, caring embrace. Of arms and hands strong enough to rescue her from Hell itself, yet gentle enough to soothe her pain and anxiety. She was feeling those reassurances in Arnold's tight embrace. Without realizing it, she let her breathing deepen and slow down as she took in the sensuousness of the moment.

"Do you really think that everyone in Hillwood hated you?" Her question snapped Arnold out of his thoughts. "Because," she continued, "I know of three people who are eternally grateful to you."

"Hm?" Arnold asked as if what wordsmithing skills he possessed had suddenly abandoned him.

"They told me after the coma of a brave young boy who risked his life to carry me to safety, who was selfless enough to make sure that the paramedics got a hold of me first. Even though he himself was in terrible shape, what with all the bad cuts and bruises and burns he had received. They pointed specifically on how a flying glass shard nicked his left brachial artery and how he refused treatment until he was sure I was taken care of first."

"You were in worse shape," was the best he could muster.

"Oh, don't remind me!" she said. "The physical injuries were bad enough, but…do you know what a TBI is?"

He'd heard that abbreviation in the Rangers: "Traumatic Brain Injury, if I remember correctly."

"Oh shoot! You're too clever!" Phoebe pouted in playful child-like grumpiness. She continued in her normal timbre: "GCS of 11. Serious enough to cause major worry, mild enough not to fully doubt in a full recovery."

"Sorry that you and your parents had to endure all of that," Arnold meekly offered, aware that he was about seventeen years too late with the apology.

"Don't be!" insisted Phoebe. "I'd rather my parents worry about my recovery than start planning my funeral. If they were to meet you, I can guarantee they'd shower you with gratitude until the end of time."

Arnold was taken aback by this statement, but Phoebe had more to say. "These arms," she continued as she rested her hands on his forearms, "saved me, brought me back from the brink, called me away from the light. These arms made two parents weep with joy and relief, instead of sorrow."

She'd made her point more than adequately, only he found himself reluctant to let go, not knowing that she was just as reluctant for him to let go. So they just stood as they were in contented silence, their breathing gradually settling into a shared rhythm. The silence was eventually broken by Arnold with: "Phoebe, there's still dessert. Would you like some prune cookies?"

Phoebe kept looking away from him as she snorted out a muffled titter. "Fuck you, Arnold Shortman!" she retorted in mock indignation, before giving in to a chuckle that would not be denied. Arnold matched her chuckle and before long both of them were sharing a heartfelt giggle.

They maintained their embrace, neither in any hurry to let go as The Boss started ringing again in Arnold's mind:

"_You might need somethin' to hold on to_  
When all the answers they don't amount to much  
Somebody that you can just talk to  
And a little of that human touch

_Baby in a world without pity_  
Do you think what I'm askin's too much?  
I just want to feel you in my arms  
And share a little of that human touch..."

The Santalov matter could wait a bit longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thank your deity of choice for Spotify! I've set up a playlist for the sole reason of providing inspiration while I'm typing each chapter. For the first four chapters, I listened most frequently to the likes of: 
> 
> Ultraviolet - Freya Ridings  
Little by Little - Oasis  
Falling Down – Oasis  
Private Investigations - Dire Straits  
Theme of ER - James Newton Howard  
Teardrop - Massive Attack  
Human Touch - Bruce Springsteen  
Have Faith - Nianell


	5. This Changes Matters Considerably

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Phoebe has gotten to understand the new Arnold, who insists that he's put the past behind him. Has he really? And what of the moment they shared, inspired by none other than The Boss? Will they even get a chance to address that matter, when a band of pursuers has other plans?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

He was still processing the events of last night: dinner with Phoebe; the long chat; that shared embrace which neither he nor she seemed to want to end. It had ended when Phoebe succumbed to exhaustion that she said was the product of three hours sleep and a six-hour road trip. He'd offered her his bed while he would crash in the lounge. The offer was accepted, and so to bed.

It was Monday morning, about five-thirty according to his internal clock when he heard the vehicles pull into the driveway and come to a stop. Shortly afterward, the sound of many people alighting, then a sharp knock on the door and an abrupt voice: "Police! Open up!"

This felt wrong. This was not the mannerism of the Sheriff's Department, plus the timing seemed off. Which was why Arnold first retrieved his holstered equipment – a Glock 21 and two spare magazines – from the counter and put on the holster before silently making his way to Phoebe to the incessant pounding at the door. The hard rapping on the door had woken her up as well and she peered at him quizzically from underneath the sheets, sans her glasses, but before she could question what was happening, he motioned to her to stay at the back and remain out of sight. Maybe it was his stern expression or the sight of him wearing the holster accompanying a pair of red plaid sleep shorts and a white vest, but Phoebe nodded back to him in quiet compliance. Lastly, he punched in a code to the gun safe and left it ajar – in case he would need some of its contents – and put on an oversized check shirt that concealed the holster.

Finally, he was ready to confront whoever was at the door.

"Good morning, Officer. How can I help you?" he asked as he scanned the driveway. He saw two black SUV's, definitely not standard issue for any police department outside a major metropolitan area: why were they here in this Podunk region, and so soon after Phoebe's arrival? The vehicles were parked in an imperious single file and flanked by a total of…he counted eleven men whom Arnold thought were too well-tailored and too cut to be cops. He noted that their suits all had a bulkier-than-normal cut, perfect for concealing a bulkier-than-normal firearm. He'd have to play this one carefully.

"Sir, I'm Detective Banks of the Hillwood Police Department," the twelfth man at the door introduced himself with the flash of his badge. A cursory glance told Arnold that Detective Banks wasn't whom he was claiming to be; in fact, none of the men was. The man in front of him had a tattoo of something or other peering out from under his left sleeve; since when had Hillwood PD revised its no-tattoo policy?

"In that case, you must have taken one hell of a wrong turn. What would require your attention all the way here?" Arnold queried with as much naivety as he could credibly feign.

"Sir, this is a serious matter. We're tracking a fugitive, suspected of a double homicide. We have reason to believe she is hiding out somewhere in this area."

"This suspect, does she have a name?" Arnold was doing his utmost to mask his skepticism.

Detective Banks produced a photograph of Phoebe, and Arnold was barely able to mask his surprise. His gesture did not go unnoticed by the detective, who asked: "You flinched, sir. May I assume that you know the woman?"

"I once knew a Phoebe Heyerdahl, but that was way back in elementary school."

"I see. Has she tried to contact you recently?"

"No. I haven't seen her in seventeen years. No clue what she's been up to," was his answer. But he could see the detective's suspicion growing.

The Detective's tone changed to a threatening one: "Sir! Are you aware that harboring a known felon is itself a felony? We're talking five years!"

_Oh shit_. Arnold had the feeling that Detective Banks already knew that Phoebe was inside, '_somewhere in this area_' be damned. It was also clear to him that Phoebe's apprehension was not the objective. The murder rap was bogus, and these men weren't cops. Their goal was either abduction, permanent silencing or both, none of which boded well for him or Phoebe. He had to push back, but how? The men by the SUV's were growing restless and their trigger fingers were certainly following suit. Their expressions suggested that all they needed was an excuse.

"Detective, you have me confused. To get here from Hillwood, a fugitive of justice would have to cross at least one state line. Clearly, this is a federal matter, so why isn't the US Marshalls involved? Also, how come none of the local law enforcement is with you? Certainly, you'd need their co-operation to effect an arrest within their jurisdiction. And that aside," he peered towards the SUVs before declaring in hope that Phoebe could hear him at the back, "twelve policemen to arrest just one suspect. That seems way excessive, doesn't it? Surely Hillwood's police resources could be used more efficiently."

"We have a warrant, smart-ass!"

"Issued in Hillwood? By a Hillwood judge? What was your probable cause...what, five hundred miles away?" Arnold retorted. Bounty hunting had exposed him to some of the ins and outs regarding arrest warrants. "Sorry, but I do believe you require a federal warrant," he continued to a man now waking up to the fact that Arnold Phillip Shortman was no fool. "I'm calling bullshit on the warrant. You'd be conducting an illegal search and any evidence you obtain…well, even the dumbest lawyer would be able to get that excluded."

"Well…" the now-supposed detective stammered for a good riposte without success. Then a look of resignation: "Very well, we play by your rules. We get the warrant and pay you another visit."

He then walked back to the SUV's and his partners. Arnold watched every movement, scanned for every gesture, anything at all that could signal trouble. The confirmation he was dreading came when Banks spoke to the group in Russian. Arnold's grasp of Russian was spotty at best, comprising mostly pejoratives and expletives gleaned from the myriad idle threats he received from collared Russian bail jumpers. As such he was familiar with the Russian words for "kill", "fucker", "bitch" and "burn", all of which he heard Banks issue.

"_PHOEBE STAY WHERE YOU ARE!_" he shouted as he watched the men draw an assortment of automatic weapons. 

* * *

That Arnold was carefully watching the group and not letting his guard falter, was ultimately what saved him. That, and the fact that he had never stepped beyond the doorway. Upon seeing the weapons being drawn, he allowed himself to fall back on the floor, thus narrowly avoiding the opening volley of their bullets. He drew his Glock and stayed low as bullets peppered into his lounge through the windows and lodged into the stone wall – at least the walls were holding up.

A constant stream of bullets, no report of any significance: sound suppressors, so this was a hit. Then, a lull. They were reloading, possibly advancing. He heard the footfalls heading towards the door. The first assailant sprinted in, just in time to see Arnold's weapon trained on him. Arnold fired off two shots that struck him in the chest, and forward into the lounge he fell. His partner followed him in and received the same treatment: bang-bang, tap-tap, thud.

Ten to go, nine rounds and two clips left against machine guns. And Phoebe. _Shit_, he had to check up on her! He then heard the man named Banks issue orders in Russian, and afterward, through the shattered lounge window he saw a man rush by, heading to the back of the house. _Crap! Phoebe!_ He moved quickly back to the bedroom where he found her scrunched up against the bed…in full view of the goon he had seen sprinting…who now had his bead on her from outside the window! "PHOEBE!" he screamed as he squeezed off three rounds in desperate hope. The bullets found the goon's chest and heart, and down he went as well.

Nine left. Only a matter of seconds before the attackers would advance again; from the footsteps at the front of the house, the advance was already underway. He did, however, have time to notice the periwinkle jammies Phoebe was wearing and noted internally: _damn, she makes blue look good_.

"Phoebe, you OK?" he frantically whispered as he raided the open gun safe.

"I think so," he heard her stammering reply.

He could no longer look her way as he was more focused on the safe's contents while the footfalls were getting closer.

He pulled out a flashbang grenade, then ordered Phoebe: "Close your eyes and cover your ears!"

"Covering!" she needed no further prompting as Arnold pulled the pin and lobbed the projectile out the door and down the passage. The advancing party had barely the time to proclaim its presence before it exploded in a burst of intense light and noise. What followed immediately afterward were sounds of pain and disorientation: just the break Arnold needed.

From the safe, he produced a shotgun, a Benelli M4. He ventured into the passage to find five dazed would-be perpetrators. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The first three had no time to react and were dropped easily with a chest shot each. The other two were able to raise their weapons at him. BOOM! Arnold was able to put the fourth one down with a heart shot as the fifth one started firing while still dazed. Arnold spun out of the way into his music room while the man fired blindly until…_CLICK CLICK_. That was Arnold's cue to break cover and – BOOM! – fire a shell into the man's chest.

Four to go. He could do this. He had to.

"Phoebe, to me!" he called to her, and she complied.

He motioned to the bathroom: "Stay in there, out of sight! Avoid the windows!"

"Avoiding!"

Arnold turned to her and noticed her hands were trembling, so he reassured her: "Don't worry, we're gonna make it. I promise."

She gave an assured nod back to him before retreating to the bathroom and closing the door.

Arnold had put his attackers on the back foot, however briefly, but he needed to press home his advantage. The Benelli only had two rounds left, not good against four enemies. Time for a change in weaponry. One of the downed had dropped a carbine, a heavily modified HK416. Arnold laid down the Benelli and quickly appropriated the automatic weapon. A quick inspection: sixty-round extended magazine, full. Burst fire mode selected. Serviceable.

Banks' voice from outside: "Hey Mister White Knight! What say we make a deal? You're obviously good at what you do. Why not join us and make some real money while you're at it? All you do is give us the woman and you can name your price!"

Arnold was insulted. "Sorry, I've become rather attached to her," he shouted back.

"You'll turn away all the money you can make just for one bitch?"

Arnold's answer to that was to fire a volley out the door and window, hoping to discourage anyone else from advancing. The sound of feet scrambling to the vehicles told him he had succeeded. He inched back towards the door and stealthily peered towards the SUV's. Four figures crouched behind the vehicles. He still had to work fast.

The lighter on the kitchen counter caught his attention. He moved to retrieve it, then fired another sustained volley from the carbine in the direction of the SUV's – to keep his attackers' heads down – while advancing back to the doorway, where he rolled the lighter towards them.

They must have fallen for his bluff, for he heard one man scream "GRENADE!", which caused the two behind the front vehicle to lift their heads in preparation for a hasty retreat. They only succeeded in presenting themselves as targets, and Arnold rewarded them with a three-round burst each, tight center mass groupings.

No respite for the other two – Banks and his last cohort – behind the rear SUV. Arnold strode in quick measured motions through the doorway burst-firing in a staccato meter_._

_Rat-tat-tat._

_Rat-tat-tat_.

_Rat-tat-tat_ keep advancing.

_Rat-tat-tat_ keep their heads down.

_Rat-tat-tat_ keep them pinned.

_Rat-tat-tat_ keep them guessing.

He made it to the vehicle, which he crossed from the rear. The men behind were so deep into formulating a counter-attack that they never saw him as he fed them the last of the carbine's bullets.

"Don't you _ever_ call her a bitch!" he said as he watched Banks expire.

A relieved Arnold then turned to face the front door and saw…_oh fuck_…one of the five had survived his shotgun blast…and retrieved his weapon which was now onehandedly trained on the football head. What little time Arnold had to assess the man was enough to spot the exposed Kevlar weaves where the slug had struck. He must have been the only cautious one of the group, a trait that Arnold was about to regret.

Quickly he dove behind the vehicle as the gunman fired off sustained three-round volleys at him. The urgency of the situation forced him into a slither-crawl motion as he scrambled away from the stream of bullets closing in on him. _Way to spoil the party, asshole, h_e cursed under his breath. He kept moving frantically to the engine bay where the engine block would offer protection from the strafing gunfire. It did its job admirably – _No replacement for displacement_, Arnold ruefully recalled. He had time enough now to draw his Glock and wait for an opening to return fire. Moments later a heavy thump was audible, accompanied by a multi-pitched scream over a persistent crackle. He peered over to see his attacker spasming violently on the ground, two wires running from his one hamstring. The wires were connected to a taser located somewhere inside the house. A now bespectacled Phoebe Heyerdahl walked out to reveal herself as its wielder.

"Never leave home without one," she offered with a shrug. 

* * *

Arnold emerged from behind the perforated vehicle, walked over to Phoebe and her victim and raised the Glock to the victim's head intending to finish the job.

"No, Arnold! No!" Phoebe yelled. Arnold saw in her stern expression that her call for his co-operation was not a request.

"His friends were all self-defense, standing your ground and protecting me from imminent death, no problem," she continued. "Kill this one now and it's murder."

"She's right, you know," a voice came from down the driveway. Apparently, the noise and the spike in adrenaline associated with a life-or-death gunfight had rendered inaudible an approaching police cruiser now parked about fifty feet down the driveway. Its driver, the sheriff, was approaching the trio, standard-issue Remington 870 at the ready.

He added: "I'd have dropped him myself…I mean, I had the shot while you were pinned down, but then your lady friend went and fried him."

"A regular cavalry," Arnold addressed the lawman more in annoyance than deference. "How'd you know I was jammed up anyway?"

"Hilda got a crazy 911 call. Believed enough of it to figure you might be in trouble. I swear that woman is never wrong with her suspicions."

Arnold could only sigh in agreement: "But that's why you love her, Arnie. But for the love of everything holy, wouldn't it have been easier to call me and warn me about this attack?" The agitation in his voice was now plain to hear.

"Hey, ease up! We got a call saying someone _might_ be planning an attack on you this morning. Key word: 'might'! Anyway, that was after hours so we tried calling you this morning, only we couldn't get any signal. So here I am, to check up on you."

At the mention of the sheriff's name, the penny dropped for Phoebe. The similar cranial structure, the pallid skin, the flaxen hair…Good Lord, this was Arnold's cousin!

As she made the realization, she heard Arnie ask: "Ma'am, everything alright?"

"Yes yes…officer…uh…Arnie…" she sputtered in surprise, wishing for an immediate redo.

"Arnie, Phoebe. Phoebe, Arnie," Arnold introduced the two.

"This your friend from elementary school?" Arnie quizzed.

"Focus, Arnie!" Arnold gestured towards the bodies, the spent casings and the Escalade-as-Swiss-Cheese exhibition.

"Yeah, I suppose there's a sound, legal explanation for all of this," Arnie said, suspecting that there probably was.

"Yes, there is!" Phoebe inserted herself forcefully into the conversation. "You have twelve assailants impersonating police officers, armed with illegally modified automatic weapons, engaged in a home invasion with intent to commit abduction and felony murder. You have two occupants of the property acting in self-defense according to your county's Stand Your Ground statute, one of whom was forced to use justifiable lethal force in the process."

"That's about as plausible as it gets," Arnie concurred. "I'm still gonna have to get the Crime Scene guys over. I'll need your weapons as well. And you'll have to find somewhere to stay today, while they process the area. You can give your statements at the station later today."

Arnold complied and presented his Glock to the Sheriff, who dutifully accepted it with a handkerchief he had produced. "The Benelli's laid down inside, near the kitchen," he offered. "You'll want that too," he continued. Then, pointing to the back of the SUV's: "Plus I appropriated one of their weapons, that HK over there."

"Duly noted," replied the lawman.

"I have a question," Phoebe piped in again. "Uh…will you be getting around to handcuffing the suspect? Maybe even get him some medical attention? He _did_ survive a shotgun round to the chest at close range, but even with whatever protection he was wearing, he may be nursing a cracked sternum."

Arnie was embarrassed by his omission: "Sorry about that. I'll get to it." After cuffing and mirandizing the incapacitated foe, he escorted the gentleman to the cruiser and called in whoever needed to be called in.

That left Arnold in his sleepwear ensemble alongside Phoebe still in her jammies. Their attention was on the SUV's.

Arnold broke the silence: "So…seems this isn't your first time around dead bodies? You seem to be taking it alright."

"Human Anatomy at college. Visits to the morgue while working stories. I got used to it eventually."

"Phoebe, what are we to make of this?" time to address the bullet-riddled elephant in the room.

"I'd say they had a signal jammer in one of the vehicles. For cellular and 4G at least, so the victims can't call for help, nor can help call for them."

"Hence Arnie being unable to reach us."

"Correct. Plus, I calculate a high probability of at least one hidden compartment in each vehicle. Convenient transport of victims, dead or alive, for later disposal."

"Any idea of how they knew you'd be here? Believe me, they _knew_."

She hooked her right arm around his left arm and rested her head against it as she sighed: "Arnold, I wish _I_ knew." 

* * *

Arnold was no stranger to the Sheriff's Department. He'd given many statements before, but today he'd be giving one in his sleepwear, much to the delight of the female staff and a few of the males too. He virtually coasted through the process, recounting and retelling the preceding events in forensic detail. Eventually, all that remained was to sign the statement, which he did.

Phoebe's experience was different. On her way to the station she'd been offered any number of coats to preserve her modesty, coffee and doughnuts on arrival for her energy, and commiserations for the ordeal she'd endured. Word had reached the station before her about how'd she saved Arnold by tasering his would-be killer in the thigh – or the ass, depending on who was relaying the story. Word of that act had earned her rousing applause upon arrival.

That was six hours ago.

She too was about to sign her statement, which she would have done much sooner had she not been transfixed by the officer opposite her, conducting the interview. The officer named Hilda and who insisted that Phoebe address her as such. She looked exactly like an adult…Helga? Only…not. Exact same facial features: jawline; eyes, unibrow. Same shade of blonde, only her hair was done in an elegant ponytail. She was much friendlier, more feminine, nowhere near as coarse. And very, very pregnant.

"Thirty-five weeks," Hilda confirmed. "And every week she finds a new way to torment me! Her kicks are getting more and more brutal"

"At least she sounds very healthy," Phoebe ventured.

"Oh, she'd better be, the way she's kicking and fidgeting!" Hilda joked.

"Not to sound condescending, but are you sure you'll be OK working here in your current condition?"

"Sure! They got me working dispatch and admin. Occasional interviews too. And speaking of which, you haven't yet signed your statement."

"Oh yes! Sorry, Deputy…"

"Ah. Ah. Ah. It's just plain 'Hilda'," the woman named Hilda reminded. Phoebe could only admire how she remained warm and cordial in instances where Helga would have blown her stack. Phoebe signed the statement. Hilda proclaimed: "Good, now we're done." Then she produced a remote to switch off the recording equipment in the room. "Okay, now you can tell me why those men _really_ attacked you," she asked with no change whatsoever in her friendly demeanor.

"Excuse me?" Phoebe was as far off-guard as was possible.

"I'm sure that you and Arnold worked together on keeping your stories consistent. That you repelled a party of home invaders intent on silencing any witnesses. Don't get me wrong, that's the story that will go on the report. The CSU guys say everything they found so far corroborates a self-defense scenario anyway. But…" her friendliness had a chilling, soul-piercing quality to it. "But…home invaders in Cadillac Escalades? In finely tailored suits? Wielding exotic weaponry? What would Arnold have for them to covet so badly? Everything about them screams Russian Mob. _High_-level Russian Mob from the city, with connections to spare."

All said in a non-threatening, non-accusatory tone. Phoebe was rendered helpless and confessed every microscopic detail that had led her over seventeen years to this point. Except for Helga; she didn't want to spook a physically delicate Hilda unnecessarily.

Hilda ruminated over what she'd just heard, let out a whistle and commented: "Sounds serious. But hey, you made it this far. Plus you've got Arnold on your side. Do me a favor please and take good care of him. He'll be needing you as much, if not more than you'll be needing him. And you'll be needing him a whole lot."

Just then the door opened and in walked Arnie: "Are we done here? CSU says a clear-cut case of self-defense."

"Statement's been signed, husband of mine. We're just getting to know each other a little better."

Wait. 'Husband of mine'? Hilda…Arnie? _Arnie…Hilda_?

Phoebe's skepticism was daubed all over her face, so Arnie explained: "Yeah, funny thing about seventeen years back. Seeing Arnold lose everything made me appreciate what joy I had in my life so much more."

"He's right," chimed Hilda. "He cleaned himself up, got himself properly educated, ditched the lint collection – thank god; don't ask – and started actively courting me."

"Liar," Arnie protested. "You were after me! She made such an impression that I ditched my girlfriend to pursue her. I mean, who wouldn't want her?" he asked as he embraced his seated wife. "She's beautiful, intelligent, kind and gracious," he ended the sentence with a kiss on her head.

"And he's become such a flatterer! Oh, just look at us!" Hilda said as she noticed a now-flustered Phoebe. "Miss Heyerdahl, you're free to go. Your man is waiting for you!"

"Going!" Phoebe reflexively responded. Then, more timidly: "Thanks…Hilda. And all the best for your family."

And she was gone.

Hilda sighed to Arnie, a tinge of sorrow in her smile and voice: "You know, Arnie? I can't help but think that if circumstances where different then she and I would have been the best of friends." 

* * *

"What the fuck do you mean 'No response'?" Vitaly Santalov was apoplectic as he voiced his frustration over the phone.

"I mean, 'they traced her through her phone's GPS, then moved in to intercept, then nothing for the past six hours'," Detective Mark Vasquez was trying to maintain his composure on the other side.

"Christ, Vasquez, find out what the fuck happened! I mean right goddamn now!"

"Right away, Mister Santalov."

"Twelve men, Vasquez! TWELVE OF MY FUCKING MEN! Just to take care of _one_ nosey bitch!"

"Well Sir, I wasn't sure whom she was meeting. Or how many people she was meeting. Where the meeting was taking place..."

Vitaly Santalov cut him off; he was having none of the excuses: "We should have offed her here in Hillwood when we had the chance!"

"No disrespect, sir, but there was a chance she wasn't working alone. Killing her then would not have been the best move. We'd still have unanswered questions."

"Vasquez, shut the fuck up and find out what the fuck happened. Don't think you're the only cop on our side! Cops are easy to replace!"

"Understood…" Vasquez said through gritted teeth before ending the call. He was at least relieved that he wasn't called while at the station. He also marveled at the advent of wireless technology that enabled him to use his tablet as an effective investigation tool, in this instance from the comfort of his regular coffee shop. For the umpteenth time, he refreshed his search on N-DEx for 'Phoebe Heyerdahl'. Nothing new so far, only one real mention containing the words 'Phoebe' and 'Heyerdahl': The Sunset Arms. Ping! One recent item was now available. He hoped for the desired outcome.

The report begged to differ.

it spoke of a failed home invasion attempt at the residence of an Arnold Phillip Shortman – situated in the county to which they tracked Phoebe – and how he was able to repel his attackers. Eleven were fatally wounded by Mr. Shortman and one was incapacitated by a Miss Phoebe Heyerdahl. The Sheriff's Department ruled the matter a case of self-defense and no charges were filed against either Mr. Shortman or Miss Heyerdahl. Not all the deceased had yet been identified, but positive ID's had been made on Yuri Denkova and Oleg Grishin, known associates of alleged Hillwood crime figure, Vitaly Santalov. Investigators also discovered on Mr. Grishin's person a Hillwood PD badge, the number on which corresponded with Detective Joseph Banks, who five weeks prior was gunned down under mysterious circumstances and whose case is still under investigation.

_Shit!_ One man saw off twelve of Santalov's soldiers? Who was this mountain man? And what the hell were they doing with a dead cop's badge? Especially one whom Vasquez had led to an ambush after being told that Joe was closing in on a particularly lucrative gambling operation run by Santalov.

He entered 'Arnold Phillip Shortman' as his search topic. What the search yielded did not please him. He saw Arnold's performance as a bounty hunter _("Not good!")_, and his military record _("Fuck me!")_. But what most caught the attention of Detective Mark Vasquez was the report of the Sunset Arms Incident seventeen years ago, and its three survivors: Arnold Shortman, Phoebe Heyerdahl and one other whose name the report had stated was rendered illegible but who commonly went by the alias of 'Brainy'.

Thus his detective's brain started mapping the connections. Arnold was the poor sap Phoebe had mentioned to him after their night of passion. As for Brainy…Vasquez had distinctly heard Phoebe mention that name in the alley, so he had to be her spook. Too bad the handle was all the detective had to work with, for now at least. Knowing what he did now, he reached for his phone and dialed Santalov's number.

"What?" was the gruff answer.

"Mister Santalov, can we meet? I have some information you will be interested in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note #1: My main benchmark for the action scene was the John Woo movie, 'Broken Arrow', in that I was going with a capable but unassuming hero. I imagined Arnold to be able to prepare and improvise as the situation demanded, much like Christian Slater's character, Riley Hale, I also drew inspiration from the HA episode, 'Mud Bowl', in which Arnold uses tactical know-how to help the fourth-graders to best the physically superior fifth-graders.
> 
> Author's Note #2: There's no way I was making Phoebe a damsel in distress, especially after her actions in TJM! What I was also implicitly stating was that she was no stranger to threats to her life as a journalist and instead of cowering away from danger, she'd prepare herself for any eventuality.
> 
> Author's Note #3: Main deviation from the series continuity: Hilda as a real character. For the sake of this story, I assumed that the events at Arnie's town in 'Arnold Visits Arnie' were not a bad dream, but a rather exaggerated recollection of past visits.
> 
> Author's Note #4: The music that inspired the action scene:  
Entropy - Nigel Stanford (low-key while hinting at relentless waves of impending danger)  
Hammerhead - Hans Zimmer (Broken Arrow Score, enough said).


	6. Pushback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Arnold has seen off Phoebe's would-be killers, with a little help from Phoebe herself. They've both provided the local Sheriff's Department with an explanation that doesn't draw the town into their mess. Meanwhile, Vasquez is under increasing pressure from Santalov to deliver results and damage control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

"Wow, look at you! Those John Woo movies have nothing on you!" she exclaimed, visibly impressed.

"It was just my training kicking in, nothing more," he replied modestly.

"Oh please! If I had known back then that you had all this kick-ass ability in you…" she let her voice trail as she gazed his way, eyelids aflutter.

Arnold and Helga were seated in the San Lorenzo departure terminal as their eleven-year-old selves. On the big screen display which would usually display the arrivals and departures, they were watching his recent altercation from Arnold's point of view.

Helga offered yet another commentary: "That bit with the flashbang was genius! Arnold Shortman: Master Tactician! Able to salvage any situation. How I love him!"

"Too bad I couldn't save you.." said a now-dejected Arnold.

"Hey hey hey! There'll be no self-pity on my watch, Mister! Besides, you gave me all the payback I needed back at my funeral."

She was, of course, referring to Bob.

The memorial altercation seventeen years prior had sealed his fate. The news stations latched onto his aggravated assault of a minor and subsequent police investigations revealed his patterns of domestic abuse. The resulting trial was swift and brutal, lasting less than a week. Bob was found guilty for charges ranging from felony domestic abuse to aggravated assault. He would spend the rest of his natural life in an out-of-state penitentiary.

Miriam was portrayed by the media as the helpless, frightened wife who was powerless to stop her violent husband. As such, she became the Prosecution's star witness whose testimony survived vigorous cross-examination and damned him to his confinement. And in exchange for her cooperation, she was cleared of any involvement in Bob's actions. She also became the sole owner of the beeper emporium, which she immediately repurposed into a massively profitable purveyor of cellular products and technology. Helga eventually came around to Arnold's thinking that Miriam was long overdue even a small chance of happiness and success.

Olga was another case entirely. After her and Bob's arrest, she suffered a breakdown and was sent to a mental institution for treatment. What happened to her, Arnold knew not nor did he lose any sleep over the matter.

Helga and Arnold resumed watching the onscreen action before Helga once again broke the silence: "So…when do you plan on banging my best friend?"

Arnold's response could only be described as a dry spit take.

"Oh come on, Arnoldo! I'm dead, remember? You won't exactly be cheating on me, _remember_? Besides, from what I see, she's filled out very nicely indeed!"

Arnold wanted to answer but couldn't. His lips were flapping but no sound was being produced. Helga kept talking as the surroundings started spinning and distorting around him: "Remember our deal! Find your happiness in life. Live your life fully, and I'll be waiting here for you. Otherwise forget it, Bucko."

Then…poof!

"Aaar-nold..! Aaar-nooold!" Phoebe was tugging at Arnold who had nodded off on the bench near the building's front desk.

It took him a few seconds to recognize Phoebe, whereupon he snapped back to instant consciousness and asked: "Hey. How'd it go?"

"All I can say is that Hilda is quite the character," Phoebe replied.

"She's very astute, right?", Arnold offered.

"Oh definitely!" confirmed Phoebe before continuing: "So, have you been waiting long?"

"Long enough to deal with my carrier. Long enough to convince them that the damage to my home was neither self-inflicted nor self-induced. They have what they need from the case file, so they'll probably be paying for the repairs. Hopefully…"

"Oh, Arnold, I'm so sorry to have dragged you into my mess," said Phoebe contritely. "You've every right to sever whatever ties we established last night. I mean…here I just waltz to you after all this time and then…this! Some first impression, huh?" With that, she lowered her gaze to the floor. Arnold's response was to lift her chin gently with his left index and middle fingers and assure her: "Hey, this happens more often than you might think. I got enough people in the county pissed off with me, with or without you."

Phoebe saw an opening: "So…if this is something of a regular occurrence, wouldn't you like to take some time off from this town. I hear Hillwood might have some appeal."

Arnold shook his head, and Phoebe felt her heart sink. "Sorry," he explained, "but my clothes and car are still at home, which until further notice is still an active crime scene. We'll have to wait for the official all clear."

Phoebe's eyes beamed in hope: "Does this mean the damn Footballhead is back?"

"What choice do I have? As far as they're concerned, we're partners so we're sharing the same bullseye."

Before he knew it, he felt her arms around his waist and her head against his chest as she excitedly exclaimed in maybe a little too much delight: "Oh thank you thank you thank you!"

The excessive delight wasn't lost on her as she abruptly pulled away and recomposed herself before explaining: "What I meant was…I am grateful for your assistance against these men so far…"

Her thoughts drifted for a while before she continued, her gleeful tone replaced with a more calculating one: "Speaking of which, I've been thinking about how they were able to track me. I've theorized that they've somehow been using my phone." Phoebe had had foresight enough to stash her phone on her person following the firefight. She was now staring at it in frustration as she added: "The battery usage has just been too high to be normal. Down to seventy percent charge. For what? And what are you thinking so hard about?"

She noticed that Arnold was in deep thought, and he answered: "Come with me. Let's go find out." 

* * *

Surprise number one: Phoebe did not expect a Sheriff's Department way out in the sticks to have a tech lab of any note, let alone one staffed by capable personnel. Yet here they were: she and Arnold, in a far-flung corner of the building, consorting with its sole occupant.

Said occupant was an unkempt, round-headed man wearing an oversized lab coat. He had an overbite so pronounced it could be considered grotesque. His nose was bulbous, his eyes narrow. His red hair was a curious combination of bowl cut and bald fade.

They had explained to him the anomalous battery usage of Phoebe's phone and whether or not they could deduce from said anomaly that said phone was being used as a tracking device.

"Well, Foutley, any comments?" asked Arnold.

"Arnold, my good man, cases like this is why I enjoy your company! Usually, the brass asks for the mundane stuff like call records and IM messages." He then turned to Phoebe: "This man will ask to wire what can't be wired, hack the unhackable, crack the uncrackable. What this man would have me do…is art itself!"

"I'm glad you enjoy your work, really and truly," Phoebe replied in a careful balance of urgency and courtesy, "but the matter in hand is of a life-or-death nature, possibly."

"Duly noted, oh fair Mademoiselle," he was quite charming, despite his outward appearance. "However, matters involving Arnold Shortman tend to be just so. If I may be so bold to state, your handling of a potentially deadly situation easily puts you in the first percentile of his…shall we say…previous associates."

With that, the man called Foutley held out his hand for Phoebe's phone, which she duly handed over and he accepted with overblown – but still sincere – gallantry. As he was setting up, Phoebe turned to Arnold and with her right forefinger made a circular motion next to her right temple. Apparently, she underestimated the extent of Foutley's peripheral vision, for the tech quipped: "Actually, I prefer to think of myself as 'neurologically atypical'."

"OK, let's see what secrets you are hiding," continued Foutley to no one in particular as he plugged the device into his workstation. Much to Phoebe's astonishment, he was able to bypass her password and access her files within a matter of seconds. Despite his obvious prowess, she doubted that…

"Found your problem!" Foutley exclaimed with glee. Then with disappointment to Arnold: "I thought you said this would be a challenge!"

Phoebe was impressed. Arnold was nonplussed.

Foutley continued regardless: "Spyware. Someone's been controlling your phone remotely. They had access to your files and your camera. They could use the mouthpiece as a mic and listen in on conversations. They could even track you using the GPS data or the cellular signal. The only downside is that it causes the device to devour its battery life. I stand corrected, Mister Shortman, this endeavor may yet be of interest. This nasty little program was hidden in…" he paused as he confirmed the source, "…a cute cat video. Specifically, the one in which the little kitty slips into the bathtub and scrambles like crazy to get out. I do so love that one…"

Phoebe became anemic. Arnold noticed her change in humor.

Foutley continued: "Sent as an attachment to an instant message." He then proceeded to read the message: "_Hey babe. I'm sure this little kitty is only half as energetic as you were last night. Sweat Droplets Emoji. LOL._ What a charmer."

Phoebe went crimson. Arnold noticed her change in humor.

Foutley continued: "Whoa! You should see the reply. What's that eggplant emoji mean anyway..?"

Arnold cut him off: "Foutley! Stay within the scope!"

"Right, right! Sent by someone designated 'Mark'."

Phoebe stood mouth agape.

"Wait a moment!" Foutley snapped. "This number looks familiar!" He then rummaged through a stack of seemingly random pages before finding what he sought. "Aha! Found it! Mobile phone belonging to the late Oleg Grishin, aka the late 'Detective Joseph Banks' of the Hillwood PD. I dumped the call records and guess what..?"

Phoebe didn't want to guess.

"…During the last twenty-four hours of his pitiful existence, Oleg Grishin, aka the late 'Detective Joseph Banks' of the Hillwood PD, exchanged lengthy words no less than three times with one Mark César Vasquez, who as it turns out is a detective from the self-same organization."

"_THAT BASTARD!_" Phoebe's howl of disbelief echoed throughout the building's corridors. 

* * *

Vitaly Santalov was seething: how could one woman – _one woman_ – cause so much trouble for the organization? He reminisced about how much simpler things were as a soldier way back in Kosovo or even more recently in Crimea: anyone causing problems would be shot, as simple as that. Didn't matter who found the body. Didn't even matter if anyone saw the act. Now in the USA however, he found himself suddenly having to be discreet in all of his dealings. The shift would have been too much for him had the financial benefits not been off the charts.

The new country supposedly had laws, but those laws had loopholes and blind spots and he had several defense lawyers on retainer. As far as the outside world was concerned, he was a property developer with uncanny business savvy, who was always the target of rumourmongering by a biased press. As far as Vitaly Santalov was concerned, he was untouchable.

He was staying in the penthouse of a luxury apartment block situated where once stood The Sunset Arms. The interior was a showcase of ostentatiousness, featuring every possible luxury amenity. And he was letting Detective Mark Vasquez profane the area with his presence and excuses.

"Mister Santalov, thank you so much for your time!"

"Get to the point, Vasquez!"

"Yes, Sir. I've obtained a lead the reporter's contact in the country and may have a line on her spook."

"And I'm supposed to read your mind?"

"Firstly, the men are all dead. All except for Yuri, and he's in custody."

Santalov felt his blood boil: "What? How?"

"Well, her contact was able to fight them off, according to the Sheriff's report."

"One man? Against twelve Crimean veterans? And who is this action hero?" Santalov's mood was a long way from improving.

"His name is Arnold Shortman, Sir. Ex-military, Army Rangers to be exact. But get this: he and the reporter, they were survivors of the Sunset Arms incident from seventeen years ago."

"Vasquez, pretend I have no fucking idea what you're talking about!"

"Well, Sir. It's the building that stood where this building now stands. It was wiped out completely. Only three survivors. Those two, plus a third. We couldn't get a name or location on him, only a handle: 'Brainy'. We believe he is the spook that sent her to the country."

"So where is he?"

"That's just it. We don't know. Best I could find was a picture of him from his elementary school's yearbook, which I ran through aging software to get an approximation of what he looks like now. Even so, we can't trace him. It's like he's a ghost."

"Vasquez," Santalov was unimpressed, "are you telling me our biggest threat is a bunch of elementary students with a grudge and their ghost friend? They should all be dead by now!"

"It doesn't end there," Vasquez steeled himself before delivering the news. "I heard through the reporter's phone of a flash drive the spook gave her. I asked your IT guys to check your network security…and well…you've been hacked. Someone – possibly the spook himself – was able to find a backdoor and make off with important information about your operations."

Santalov did not expect this: "And what type of information did this man steal?"

"Operations. Floorplans. Bank statements. A bit of everything. Looks like he was fishing."

"Shit! How did he get that right? Those IT guys were supposed to be the best! Were they at least able to trace who did it or whatever the fuck it is they do?"

"Well yes. Yes, they did. Only he was smarter than expected. We traced the breach to a remote server in Richards Bay, South Africa. He's been playing us for fools all this time."

"Vasquez, I want this man dead. I want those insects all dead!

Detective Mark Vasquez was about to explain in detail how they were still tracking Phoebe's movements through her phone and that for all her intelligence she hadn't yet figured out the ruse. He wanted to elucidate on how, despite the setback with the hit squad, Phoebe had gained no advantage and was still effectively on the back foot with or without her bodyguard. As soon as she made a move, they'd know about it. He would have mentioned all of these points, but the sounding of the door buzzer cut him off, as did Santalov's curt dismissal: "That's my business partner. Fuck off, Vasquez. Remember it's your ass on the line! Your wife's too if you fuck this one up!"

Fully motivated to succeed, Vasquez took his leave: "Understood, Sir." 

* * *

"That two-faced, pus sucking, untrustworthy, underendowed, antediluvian..._oooooh_! That glib, self-serving, blank-firing, fast-finishing…_asshole_!" Phoebe had sustained her vituperation ever since learning the true nature and intent of her now erstwhile friend with benefits.

To the point where she almost didn't notice the town's surprise number two: shopping options that defied many expectations. Not that they were spoilt for choice, but she and Arnold were easily able to purchase a change of clothing for each of them: Arnold stuck with his trademark ensemble of jeans, white t-shirt, and loose check shirt; Phoebe went with khaki shorts and a blue checked shirt, plus she sprung for proper hiking boots.

Finally feeling fully clothed, the pair made their way to the local gun shop, which also doubled as the local electronics store. There Phoebe had purchased a brand new phone and the most powerful power bank for her old phone, from which she had removed the battery.

Now they were having brunch at a breakfast joint that was competing with a barbecue restaurant, a vegan(?) café, and a sushi bar. Phoebe had calmed down considerably by then, spurred by a sudden onset of hunger. Throughout Phoebe's ranting, Arnold had remained calm and silent, not wanting to place himself in her verbal crosshairs.

Phoebe was aware of his state and initiated the conversation: "You've been awfully quiet since the tech lab. Something on your mind?"

"Trying to wrap my head around something. You always came across as someone who'd do her research thoroughly before committing to anything. I never thought of you as the type who'd fall so in love that you'd let your guard down."

At that statement, Phoebe frowned: "It wasn't love. It was sex. He was charming, he said his wife was giving him hell at home. I don't know, I felt sorry for him."

Arnold almost choked on his pancakes, before exclaiming: "Whoa…married? He's married?"

Phoebe blushed in instant regret: "What, are you going to judge me now?"

"No," Arnold was still in his calm tone.

"Then what?" Phoebe had suddenly become agitated. "You're disappointed, aren't you? Disappointed that the innocent, virginal Phoebe Heyerdahl you once knew is now someone's other woman. A homewrecker!"

"No, I…"

"What? Thought I'd remain a mousy saint all my life? You want to express anger that you'll never be my first time?" Her agitation had now become full-bore defensiveness.

Arnold remained calm, allowing Phoebe to continue: "Because I'll have you know, Arnold Phillip Shortman, you wouldn't be my second or even my fourth!"

"Too much information, Phoebe," Arnold's deadpan was almost disarming. _Almost_.

Undeterred, Phoebe continued ranting about how at The Sunset Arms she sustained what the neurologist diagnosed as damage to her prefrontal cortex, which over seventeen years would manifest in the occasional lack of impulsivity control. As a result, she was prone to rushing headlong into decisions without proper consideration. Decisions which included the sexual history to which she had alluded: a buff high school senior, a nerdy fellow college student, a college lecturer and now a married detective who wanted her dead.

Arnold ruminated over what he'd heard. "Very impressive. But I reckon I have you beat by one," was his eventual reply.

"Pardon?" Phoebe asked incredulously.

"Well, do you think I'm the same innocent little boy _you_ knew from PS 118? Think I haven't had my share of sexual encounters? Since we're comparing notes…"

Now it was Arnold's turn to reveal the women who formed part of _his_ sordid history. Two in San Lorenzo by the time he was seventeen, including one from the Green-Eyed People; his drill sergeant's daughter – three years his senior – while on basic training; an Iraqi doctor with MSF he met while on furlough near Baghdad; finally, a particularly rough PMC in Eritrea – "I still have the scars from that one", he quipped.

He concluded: "Plus, I'm sure _you've_ never had a…session, shall we say…interrupted by a bomb attack on the block where your hotel was situated."

"No way!" Phoebe was stumped.

"Let's just say the earth moved for all the wrong reasons."

Phoebe felt her agitation gradually give way to amusement as she took in that particular carnal misadventure. Her smile widened and she started giggling to herself. She realized too that she and Arnold were equally changed; there'd be no point in holding on to the innocent and wholesome ideals from way back when.

Two flawed individuals who suddenly found themselves needing one another.

"So, about that bomb attack…"

This time Arnold didn't look up from his plate: "Finish your food. We need to pay a visit."

"Finishing!" Phoebe quipped mischievously, noting tinges of red on his cheek. All the same, she couldn't resist: "And where exactly are those scars..?" 

* * *

They met Arnie at the clinic, by which time Phoebe had stopped being surprised by the amenities of this supposed backwater town. Arnie was holding a folder as he acknowledged their presence and led them to their destination. When they got to the room, the guards on duty waved all three of them in.

"Wakey wakey, Yuri!" Arnie said loudly, startling the sleeping Yuri Denkova who immediately winced in pain from his cracked sternum.

"Careful, Yuri! Your ribcage is still healing from your encounter. Hard to believe a 6'4" mountain like you got his ass kicked by this," Arnie said as he motioned to Arnold and Phoebe, noting tacitly that neither of them could have been more than 5'10".

Yuri Denkova, strapped up as he was, began a torrent of Russian invective. Unfortunately for him, one other person in the room understood what he was saying. "Really, Yuri, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" asked Phoebe, but neither Arnold nor Arnie understood her for she was speaking Russian as well.

Defeated, Yuri Denkova conceded in English: "What do you want?"

Arnie responded: "Just to point out that you're in serious trouble, Yuri. Attempted murder, impersonating a police officer, home invasion, possession of an illegally modified firearm. Too bad none of your friends are around to help you out."

"What friends? I was out for a hike in the area and I just happened to hear the gunfire, so I thought I might help the homeowner who was under attack."

To which Arnie countered: "Dressed in a two thousand dollar suit, designer shoes and also a Kevlar vest? Not exactly hiking gear now, is it?"

"It's the truth, Sheriff."

"Then let's talk about the weapon found in your possession. Heckler & Koch HK416, full auto conversion, sound suppressor, flash suppressor, laser dot sight. Very impressive. Very, _very_ illegal."

"Hey, can't be too careful in the woods."

"So you admit that the weapon belongs to you? Good! Saves me having to ask how your fingerprints got on it."

Denkova wanted to explain away that piece of evidence, but Phoebe cut him off. "Sheriff," she said to Arnie with feigned disapproval, "is it not clear that this man is a hero? He claims to have had second thoughts during the home invasion, before turning against his friends. Truly a man of newfound virtue!"

Arnold caught on and added: "It certainly explains why he was firing at me by accident, not being able to tell who was attacking and who was defending, I must say, it takes balls of steel to turn against Vitaly Santalov."

Then it was Arnie's turn: "Well, then, Mister Denkova, it seems your story has been corroborated and that you were willing to defy one Vitaly Santalov in the name of what is right. I'll be sure to mention this in the report."

To which Yuri Denkova went pallid. He wanted to protest, but Phoebe had gotten the Sheriff's attention: "Sheriff, what about the ballistics report?"

"Oh yes!" Arnie pretended to have forgotten as he rifled through the folder. "Sorry Yuri, but you know that weapon with your fingerprints. The darndest thing, but our ballistics guys matched the casings from the weapon found in your possession to the killing of one Detective Joseph Banks of the Hillwood Police Department. Now I'm sure you must have an explanation for that too, but don't worry. You can straighten it all out with the Hillwood PD."

Again, Denkova attempted to protest. Again, he was cut off. "Clear case of wrong time, wrong place," Phoebe commented with barely concealed vindictiveness.

"Wrong weapon, too," Arnold added, equally relishing in the schadenfreude.

"Mister Denkova," Arnie regained his authority, "I've had to add that rather unfortunate detail to the report as well and also inform the Hillwood PD. It appears that they want a word with you. They're coming over to pick you up as we speak. I wish you all the best."

Denkova knew instantly that the trio was setting him up against his fellow criminals and began another stream of Russian expletives. Arnie, with melodramatic concern, loudly called out: "Doctor! We got a patient in terrible pain here! Can you do something about it?"

On cue, a doctor rushed into the room, syringe at the ready, and administered a sedative to the Russian. Phoebe saw him drifting to sleep, and quickly seized the opportunity to slide over to him and whisper into his ear, in fluent Russian: "You know you'll be dead within twenty-four hours. Sleep tight, motherfucker!"

They left the sleeping giant be, passing the two deputies guarding the room on their way out. The older, wiser specimen waited for them to be out of earshot before turning to her younger subordinate: "See, Rookie? That's why we love Sheriff Arnie. Every problem our county has, he makes it some other county's headache." 

* * *

Detective Mark Vasquez did not like what he was seeing on the screen. In his favorite coffee shop, N-Dex was showing on his tablet an updated report of the failed home invasion of Phoebe and her hero. New developments. Like how Yuri Denkova was no longer being considered a suspect; apparently he recovered sufficiently to make a statement claiming that he was a passer-by on the attempted crime and decided to intervene in the matter. His intervention included firing on the police impersonators. The local Sheriff's Department bought his story; apparently, their CSU couldn't find any evidence to the contrary. More disturbingly was the weapon found in his possession (_"Please, no!"_) which the local ballistics team was able to link to the shooting of Detective Joseph Banks of the Hillwood Police Department (_"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"_). Denkova also confirmed in his statement that he was the owner of said weapon, which made him a person of interest in the eyes of the Hillwood Police Department who at this moment were arranging his extradition.

Not good, not good at all! The report now spoke of a rogue cop killer – a self-confessed former associate of Vitaly Santalov at that – turning against his employer's organization. Worst case: he blabs about the details surrounding Joe's death. Absolute worst case: he turns evidence against Santalov's organization. Either way, he had to die.

He was about to call Santalov to inform him of the new development when his phone rang. '_Caller Unknown_'.

"Detective Vasquez." A statement, not a question: the voice knew it was Mark César Vasquez on the other side.

"Who is this?"

"Who I am is of no immediate importance. What I have to offer you…well, I'd suggest you stay on the line."

"OK, I'll bite…"

"Detective Vasquez, I understand that you find yourself in something of a tight spot your current employer."

"Well yes. Yes, I do. I mean, the Union is still trying to negotiate better overtime regs for us…"

"Do not be facetious, Detective," the voice turned an authoritative shade of intimidating. "I have it on proper grounds one Vitaly Santalov has started considering you a loose end and wishes to terminate your employment with him."

Whoa! How did the caller know of his involvement with Santalov? This had to be IAB on another of their fishing expeditions. He was about to deny his involvement when the voice resumed: "I assure you, Detective, I do not represent any law enforcement agency in any capacity."

"Look, if you are whom you claim to be…"

"I am, Detective, and if you wish to benefit from my offer then I'd suggest no further questions."

Vasquez offered no further resistance with his silence.

"Excellent. You see, Detective, Vitaly Santalov forms part of my organization, and his recent recklessness has made him a liability and also suggested that his usefulness has come to an end. We will be holding a disciplinary hearing against him later this evening and I would very much want to call on you as my star witness."

"If I refuse..? Speaking hypothetically of course," Vasquez did not want to sound too eager.

"Let's just say, Detective, that a loose end in Vitaly Santalov's organization would also be considered a loose end in mine. So too would be his beautiful, if somewhat older wife. Hypothetically speaking, of course."

Resigned to his fate, Vasquez answered: "In that case, I'm in."

"Excellent, Detective! Splendid! You'll be texted the time and venue shortly. I look forward to dealing with my newly-acquired asset."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: One of my bigger challenges here was trying to think of appropriate words that a profoundly angry Phoebe would use. Base words alone would not have sufficed, so I had to think of words with a more intellectual edge to add to the mix.
> 
> Author's Note #2: I deliberately set up Phoebe's relationship with Mark Vasquez not for the purpose of driving a wedge between her and Arnold , but to highlight their character traits: (1) Phoebe is strong-willed and in charge of her own sexuality and (2) Arnold is not the type to judge others on such simplistic a basis.
> 
> Author's Note #3: How about that lab tech? I reckoned he would grow up to work in such a field, given his proclivities in As Told by Ginger.
> 
> Author's Note #4: On my Spotify playlist while writing this chapter:  
It's Probably Me - Sting  
Private Investigations - Dire Straits;   
Am I The Same Girl - Dusty Springfield  
Come Undone - Duran Duran


	7. Know Thine Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Phoebe and Arnold have finally figured out how she was being tracked, thanks to a rather eccentric lab tech known only by his surname. Santalov becomes more erratic at the effects that one woman has had on his organization, and it seems that Vasquez might be his scapegoat. Arnold and Phoebe come to terms with their respective pasts. Vasquez may have a new employer lined up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

"Something's off. This doesn't look right."

Late Monday afternoon going on to evening. This was the culmination of Arnold and Phoebe's day. After the trip to the clinic, they were informed that CSU would only be done processing Arnold's home by very late that evening. They'd have to stay in the motel, only it was the middle of hunting season and – "Well, what do you know," quoth the desk clerk – the only available room was a honeymoon suite. Phoebe concluded internally that game hunting and nuptial bliss was a combination that made sense only in a town like this. Perhaps understandably, the room dubbed the honeymoon suite had no study desk, the main focus being the enormous king-size bed that was its centerpiece. Hence Phoebe and Arnold, lying face down on the most spacious bed, finally studying the Santalov flash drive on a laptop that Arnold was able to cadge off Foutley.

"It says here he saw combat in Kosovo and Crimea. No doubt he's committed his share of atrocities. He's quite the formidable leader." That was Arnold's conclusion.

"Not necessarily," Phoebe countered. "Nothing here suggests that he's a big-picture person. His highest rank was Captain, so he could lead a squadron, he had the respect of a few soldiers. But ultimately, he was always following orders from higher up. To the letter at that, meaning he was always willing to appease his superiors. Now, how do these attributes translate to someone supposedly sitting atop a business empire?"

Arnold had to admit she had a point. Being good at following orders, now making multi-million dollar business deals for himself: it didn't compute.

Phoebe continued with her analysis: "Maybe he's a figurehead. Granted, a violent, sociopathic figurehead, but a figurehead nonetheless."

"That doesn't make sense. Why put someone like that in such a position?" Arnold was skeptical.

"Here's another crazy thought. Maybe he didn't found his empire. Maybe he was given it as a reward."

"That's a lot of maybes but keep going."

So she did: "Well consider this. He had this most uncanny ability to acquire properties and sell them to high-end developers, from whom he'd receive a very substantial monthly stipend, a sort of finder's fee. Now consider – just…consider – that what we've been believing is incorrect and that the developers buying the properties from him are actually his bosses and that _he_ is actually doing _their_ bidding."

"So…he's actually obtaining the properties under their orders..?" Arnold was catching up to her reasoning.

"Following orders, just like the good soldier he is…" Phoebe completed his thought. "One way to find out," she declared. "Let me go back to the main menu…there…' _Bank Statements_'! Let's see if he's receiving periodical benefits from anyone."

Indeed he was. A cursory glance showed regular payments made to some very prolific public figures, as well as monthly high seven-figure payments received, going back at least ten years and all originating from one bank in the British Virgin Islands.

"Oh dammit! An offshore account!" Phoebe was frustrated at her search being suddenly stymied. "It would be difficult enough with a local bank, but asking for records from an offshore one, in a tax haven no less, would be impossible!"

"Not necessarily," rebutted Arnold. "Can I have your phone please?" Phoebe handed him the device and heard his side of the subsequent call.

"Foutley? You alive? I got something for you!... Nope, it's damn near impossible…Yep, it's your ass if you get caught…That's the spirit! You know you can't resist shit like this!"

"Well, I need you to trace the owner of a British Virgin Island bank account…Bank? One moment…Phoebe?" He motioned to her.

Phoebe told him the name of the bank, as well as the account number, which he relayed to Foutley.

"How long before you have an answer? OK, thanks, man." Then, to Phoebe, after he ended the call: "He'll let us know when he has something."

"Are you sure he'll be fine?" Phoebe asked, not wanting to think that Foutley was taking a very dangerous risk. Arnold eased her concerns: "Don't worry! It's not his first time doing something like this. Truth be told, I think he enjoys inconveniencing big corporations."

He continued, looking back at the screen: "Good call on checking the bank records."

"Which also raises a question," Phoebe pondered. "Just why is a Russian kingpin banking in the British Virgin Islands? One would think that he'd want to keep his money in the motherland. Oh well, a mystery for another time."

At that, Arnold turned his head away from the laptop screen to focus on Phoebe in admiration of her powers of abductive reasoning, only to find himself looking her directly in the eye. A prolonged pause, an awkward silence, then: "Arnold, if you're not going to make the first move then allow me!"

With that, Phoebe reached for the back of his head and pulled herself towards him, her lips meeting his for a prolonged kiss that became more tender as Arnold became more aware of the situation, which didn't take long at all. It eventually ended, their lips parting with a pronounced smack.

"This another example of your lack of impulsivity control?" Arnold asked while nonetheless sporting a mile-wide grin.

"Well, past events, detailed by none other than you, suggest that you have a knack for attracting the off-their-rocker kind of girls," Phoebe responded with a sexy look of mischief in her eyes accentuated by her glasses. Arnold was not about to argue with such an inviting expression; he was moving in for a kiss of his own. He would have succeeded too if not for the loud pounding at the door.

Cursing and muttering under his breath, Arnold went to open the door which revealed Arnie. "Arnie," he announced in a voice echoing a profound distaste for his cousin's presence.

"Sorry for disturbing your quiet time," said Arnie as he spotted an equally irritated Phoebe now seated on the bed. "Evening, Sheriff," she said, her words covered in frost.

Never renowned for his empathy, Arnie continued: "Listen, the stiffs from this morning? We're still running ID checks on them. Surprise, surprise: so far all the ones we've identified are known associates of Vitaly Santalov. High ranking lieutenants, in fact, with dossiers thicker than your head."

"So you're saying the organization's been set back all the way to Glasnost?" Arnold asked.

"Yeah, something like that. More good news. Hillwood PD arrived to transport your friend Denkova back home. They probably have the interrogation room picked out for him already."

"That's good, right?" Phoebe asked less frostily. "The organization is sure to be in tatters with its top structure weakened."

"I'm not so sure that there's an organization left," Arnie replied. "Vitaly Santalov is dead. Shot in his penthouse apartment in Hillwood."

On hearing this nugget, Arnold and Phoebe were shocked into silence, questions of where, when, how, why and who teetering from their tongues. However, before they could let loose with their questions, Arnie's radio crackled into life: "Sheriff, come in, Sheriff! Hostage situation at the clinic. Deputies and Hillwood PD at the scene. Hostage taker is Yuri Denkova. Hostage confirmed to be Deputy Hilda."

Arnie's expression went blank at that last sentence. Suddenly he had no compunction to explain the Santalov matter. Suddenly he had a much more important matter to address. "I'm on my way," he replied with the best veneer of professionalism he could salvage. 

* * *

"_HQ. 16:30._" So read the text.

So began Detective Mark Vasquez's journey into a new unknown. The first one had been easy enough. He was a patrolman fresh out of the academy, with ambition and mounting student loan debt – the latter a consequence of the Psychology degree - in equal magnitude. Nonetheless, he performed his patrol duties with courtesy, professionalism and a very astute sense of dealing with people. Which meant his transfer to the detective squad was approved in a heartbeat. Then came the first phone call: an offer to settle his loan debt, and he wasn't asked for anything big in return. Instead, a series of small favors: elicit a bogus confession here and there; convince the occasional witnesses that what they thought they saw, they did not see. Before long, he was part of Vitaly Santalov's favors network; soon afterward he was a regular consort. The arrangement was mutually beneficial: he'd smooth out some or other aspect of their operations; they would provide intel on their rivals whom he'd bust and thus become the top detective in the Hillwood PD. It was…it was the opposite of a vicious cycle.

And he could feel that it was about to end.

Detective Vasquez reached Santalov's headquarters at the appointed time to find it deserted. Guards that he didn't recognize were guarding the entrance. They were not Santalov's men because they looked more like professional bodyguards, capable of dealing even with targets that shot back.

Despite their intimidating appearance, they waved him in with not a single word spoken. Entrance, foyer, elevator: he was allowed to pass through. On the way up, his phone pinged the arrival of another text: "_Protect and serve. Penthouse._" He could see where this was going.

He was now at the ajar door of Santalov's penthouse. He could hear the Russian's bellowing coming from well within the abode, in a tone suggesting that someone was not long for this world. Detective Vasquez followed Santalov's thunderous voice to his office, where he stood at the door and quietly observed.

Santalov was seated at an unnecessarily ornate desk, positioned perpendicularly to the doorway. Flanking him were two of his soldiers – possibly his last remaining lieutenants – both of whom had their Uzi submachine guns trained on the standing guest. Vasquez positioned himself at the doorway so as to remain unseen by Santalov and the guards. The guest was an aging man stood opposite Santalov, a briefcase by his side. The old figure was monolithic in appearance, his eyes conveying a ruthlessness that respected no-one's interests but his own. He projected a sense of intimidation that filled the room, hence Santalov's overcompensating bluster.

"How the fuck do you think you can march in here and demand that I turn my organization over to you?" Santalov was firing on all cylinders as usual.

"Mister Santalov, I would appreciate it greatly if you toned done your language and your volume," rebutted his guest, not the least bit concerned about the weapons aimed his way. His voice sounded familiar; this was the man who made the irresistible offer over the phone!

"Well fuck you then! Do you know all the rooms in this building are soundproof? My men could unload their guns on you, and no-one else in the building would hear a thing!"

"Mister Santalov, I am fully aware of this building's specifications. After all, I am its owner. As I am the owner of all the properties you acquired on my behalf."

"Yes! Exactly! We've had our arrangement for how long? Just under twenty years! Now you say I'm fired?"

"You misunderstand. This is not a termination, it is more of a dissolution of a partnership. An unbundling of corporate assets, as it were. For which you are to be handsomely compensated." With that last sentence, the old man placed the briefcase on the desk and opened it, still paying no heed to the automatic weapons aimed at him.

"And what the fuck is this supposed to be?" Santalov asked, confused by the contents.

"Twenty million dollars, in negotiable bearer bonds. Untraceable, able to be converted to cash. All yours if you agree to sever all contact with me and my corporation, no hard feelings."

"Damn, it's mine if I don't…" Santalov corrected. Vasquez recalled the second text – _"Protect and serve"_ – as he drew his service pistol, a Glock 22. Then, as he heard Santalov order the old man's execution, announced himself at the doorway: "Police! Drop your weapons!"

Santalov and his gunmen turned in surprise to the detective, who used the moment of their confusion to fire two shots at the closest gunman. Both shots found the man's right shoulder, rendering him incapacitated. Vasquez instantly focussed on the second one – who was now lifting his Uzi at the detective – and squeezed off three more shots his way. Two rounds found his abdomen, the third was a headshot. With no time to waste, Vasquez returned his attention to the still-standing first guard and finished him with a headshot as well, thereafter he trained his weapon at Santalov. The whole sequence of events felt much longer than the second-and-a-bit in which they had actually played out.

"Vasquez, what the fuck is this?" Santalov remained defiant towards the detective and the situation. "I should have had you killed a long time ago, you treacherous piece of shit! You and your wife both! All of this because you fucked that reporter instead of killing her!"

"Sir, drop your weapon!" Vasquez disregarded Santalov's rant.

"What weapon?" asked Santalov before the reality of the detective's intention dawned on him. "No! Wait! Wait, goddammit!" he pleaded as he reached inside his jacket and clumsily drew his sidearm. Too late, as Vasquez fired three rounds into Santalov's chest. His death was instant.

Despite the brief frantic activity, the old man's demeanor remained ice-cold as he approached Vasquez: "Detective, you have my eternal thanks. That man you killed had been extorting me and my corporation for nearly twenty years and today he decided that I'd outlived my usefulness to him. Hence the ransom in bearer bonds and the attempted execution. Luckily for me, you received an anonymous tip regarding this undertaking and acted on it. Be sure to put all of that in your report."

To which Detective Mark Vasquez nodded in agreement as he studied the old man's facial features: "You look familiar. Where have I seen you before?"

The man's reply: "No time for introductions. I suggest you call in this scene and stick to our story. And detective, it pleases me that you are indeed a most talented asset." 

* * *

They made their way to the clinic in hurried silence. Phoebe's dread was palpable, as was Arnold's. Arnie had remained expressionless since learning of the situation; regardless, he was gunning the cruiser, running stop signs and making the tires squeal as he slid the vehicle around corners, all to get to the scene as quickly as possible.

Information on the preceding events had trickled in through the radio: Somehow Denkova had come into possession of a scalpel, and despite his bad ribs when the Hillwood PD arrived for his extradition and had uncuffed him from his bed, he was able to overpower the contingent on his ward and make a run for freedom. In the process, two of Hillwood's finest received severe lacerations in their arms from his swinging scalpel. His escape was immediately complicated when Hilda happened into the ward with the necessary paperwork. His plan disturbed, Denkova chose to improvise and grabbed the pregnant deputy. With the scalpel held against Hilda's neck, Denkova gradually made their way through the clinic to the parking lot.

This was where Arnie's party found them, amid a lake of deputies aiming Denkova who was standing firm, scalpel held menacingly to Hilda's neck. All around was a disorientating cacophony as armed deputies shouted their orders over one another to Denkova, who in turn was shouting his own demands back at them. Hilda, for all the commotion, was keeping remarkably calm.

"Stay here," Arnie ordered as he exited his cruiser.

"No, we're coming with you!" Phoebe wasn't sure if it was her journalistic instincts or her nascent fondness for Hilda, but one way or the other she was compelled to see how the event would play out. Before Arnie could protest, she too was out the vehicle with Arnold in tow.

"OK, but stay outside the perimeter!" Arnie conceded as he walked towards the fracas.

"Arnold, what's he going to do?" Phoebe turned to a now composed Arnold, keeping in mind his hitherto look of dread.

Arnold's answer: "What else? He's going to rescue his wife." To hear Arnold's answer, one would think that the situation was all but resolved. "And just how can you be certain?" Phoebe was perplexed by Arnold's sudden lack of concern. His answer: "Simple. He's here and she's still alive."

The sea of bodies parted in Arnie's presence as he made his way to the hostage scene. "OK people! Lower your weapons!" The deputies duly complied while the remaining Hillwood officer looked on in incredulity before he too was motioned to comply.

Arnie kept approaching Denkova, seemingly oblivious to the reality. "Stop! Don't come any further! I'll cut this bitch, I swear!" the hostage-taker ordered.

Arnie stopped about thirty feet from them, then slowly and deliberately drew his service pistol, a SIG-Sauer P228, which he aimed at the pair. Denkova became antsy at the sight: "Sheriff! Put your gun down! I'll cut the bitch up unless I get a deal!"

Arnie held firm: "Honey, are you OK?"

Hilda answered as calmly as she could: "I must admit, I have felt better."

Denkova realized they were speaking over him: "Are you listening to me? If I get back to Hillwood I'm a dead man! I want…"

"Shut up!" snapped Arnie, keeping the duo in his iron sight. "I'm talking to my wife, not you!"

"_SO…_I'm holding your wife, am I? So now you listen to _me_, Sheriff! You get me a car and me and your wife, we take a ride. No tails, no choppers, _nothing_!"

"I got news for you, buddy!" Arnie spoke back to him. "Your boss Santalov? He's dead. Killed about an hour ago. You're wasting your energy here."

"That's bullshit! You're bluffing! I go back and suddenly I accidentally get shivved in jail! I want what I asked for and I want it in thirty seconds!" Denkova screamed as he tightened his grip around Hilda's throat.

Arnie then asked: "Honey, can I trust you?"

To which Hilda replied, still holding on to her calm façade: "With all your heart, Lover. With all your heart."

Phoebe, having inched her way to the perimeter with Arnold, was awestruck at what happened next. Hilda was aware that Denkova was holding the scalpel in his right hand, against the left side of her neck. She was also aware that his left hand was pressing down on her head without grasping her hair. That second detail proved useful in the plan. In a deft move, she brought her right hand against his right elbow then quickly and violently pushed it further to the left. In doing so, she forced the blade away from her neck while creating a gap between his arm and his chest. She then let herself go completely limp which allowed her to drop down through the gap and land at his feet. Denkova was stunned for the briefest of instances at her escape, which was time enough for Arnie to loose a single shot that struck Denkova in his brow, killing him instantly.

It was all too much for Phoebe as she breached the perimeter and dashed past Arnie to the still prone Hilda. "Hilda? Hilda, are you wounded? Are you OK?" she asked with febrile rapidity as she grabbed the pregnant woman's hands.

"Relax, Miss Heyerdahl, I'm fine. A bit shaken maybe, but fine."

"Ah. Ah. Ah," Phoebe mimicked Hilda's instruction from earlier. "It's just plain 'Phoebe'."

"Touché," Hilda replied with a wry smile, followed by a soft chuckle.

Meanwhile, Arnie had advanced on them to assess the scene. "CLEAR!" he shouted while holstering his weapon. Then to Phoebe: "Miss Heyerdahl, please! No civilians allowed. You have to vacate the area." Then to the crowd, he shouted: "Can we get a doctor over here?"

"It's OK. I'm fine, I promise!" Hilda quietly reassured Phoebe, her smile unwavering.

That was good enough for Phoebe. "Vacating!" she chirped as she disappeared from sight.

"Well, Sheriff!" the remaining undamaged Hillwood officer approached. "Looks like you saved us the cost of trying this cop killing asshole. Still, he could have turned evidence on the other crime syndicates…"

"Officer, the moment anyone threatens the woman I love, they might as well get the toe tags ready."

Away from the sheriff, out of earshot, the older, wiser deputy who had been guarding Denkova's room earlier that day, proclaimed to her younger partner: "See, Rookie? that's why we love our sheriff. He takes shit from no-one." 

* * *

It wasn't unreasonable: Arnie had to stay at the clinic to give his statement, as did all the deputies involved, as did the Hillwood officers who'd be leaving emptyhanded. The cut-up duo was being stitched up, just enough to see them make it back to Hillwood where they'd have to receive more intensive treatment. With the show over, the two civilians opted to walk the mile or so back to the motel. Which they were doing side by side.

"Just how did Arnie become such a good marksman?" Phoebe was still in awe of what she had witnessed.

"He grew up on a farm. He's been shooting since he was eight."

"Ah! So he's better than you, hmm?"

"No need to rub it in!"

"Still, it's incredible, isn't it?" Phoebe changed the subject. "That bond that Arnie and Hilda share. That absolute trust in each other."

"Well, they have been married for five years," Arnold responded almost churlishly. "And they were together since sixth grade before that. They made it work somehow."

"Aw!" Phoebe teased. "You sound a little bit jealous, don't you?"

"No, I'm not!" Arnold snapped, sounding insulted that she had even asked that question.

"Arnold, I didn't mean for it to sound that way!" Phoebe expressed contritely.

Nevertheless, Arnold continued: "I didn't move here because of Hilda. I came here to reconnect with Arnie. He's all family I have left. My last blood relation."

"I'm so sorry about that, Arnold. I just didn't consider your situation from that viewpoint."

"Well yeah, there's a whole lot that you didn't read in Brainy's report."

"And Arnold," Phoebe's tone changed from contrite to sober, "I'm interested in getting to know you beyond just a selection of data points and bullet points and transcripts. Truly."

"Beyond my usefulness as a bodyguard?"

"Listen, Arnold!" Phoebe's voice took on a sterner edge. "You might have forgotten this from last night, but I was just as much a pariah from PS118 as you were. My family and I all stood up for you then eventually practically got run out of town and had to move to Seattle."

"You didn't have to, you know?" Arnold was sticking to his sullen façade. "It's not like I was there to thank you for it. I was in another country, remember?"

"Then consider this," Phoebe was not giving up easily. "This is difficult to recount, but…when they got me to the ER all those years back…the doctors…well, they said I died on the table. Flatlined, in fact, went into fibrillation. That's what the surgeons said after the fact. For all intents and purposes, I was dead. They were about to declare me dead. Do you know what brought me back?"

She was going to tell him anyway, not that he wasn't fully engrossed by her story.

"I'll tell you what!" His silence was – correctly – construed as permission to continue. "You, Arnold, you! I kept hearing your voice. '_Phoebe, don't die._' '_Phoebe, you're gonna make it_.' I kept hearing it over and over and…"

Arnold interrupted: "You got tired of my nagging and decided to stay, right?"

Phoebe made visible her disapproval at Arnold's attempt at humor: "Yes, laugh it off if you want! The fact remains: You gave me back my will to live. How could I not stand up for you? Whether or not you were present is irrelevant!"

Arnold was now intrigued: "Are you suggesting that you're glad that Brainy sent you to meet me? That you're glad to have met me? _Me_?"

Phoebe's response was to look directly into his eyes and proclaim: "You said Arnie is your last remaining family, right? Similarly, you're an important piece of my past, the only PS118 colleague that I have left, the only person, in fact, with whom I can still relate other than my parents. Forget Brainy, I didn't know him nearly as well as I did you. And after we're done sorting this Sunset Arms matter…" suddenly her voice faltered, "I'd…very much like to continue…getting to know you better…and…"

"And…?" Arnold pressed.

Instead of finishing her statement, she looked to the ground as if she had spoken most inappropriately. Meanwhile, Arnold was stopped cold by the unfinished remark. Phoebe continued walking ahead in sudden reticence.

"Phoebe?" Arnold called to her, reaching for her, his right hand finding her left and pulling her back towards him. To his surprise, she spun towards him, swung her right arm around his shoulder and practically crashed her lips into his for a passionate kiss. Arnold could claim to have been taken unawares, only that would have made him a liar. He released her arm and clasped his arms around her shoulders with one hand cupping the back of her head, the better to return her kiss with one of equal ardor. He found Phoebe's soft moans heady, sexy, thrilling, compelling him not to stop.

The location couldn't have been worse. No streetlight to illuminate them and single them out (late afternoon). No rainfall to highlight the purity and sincerity of their desires (summer). No quiet, intimate setting (sidewalk on the main street). None of these factors mattered as the two kissed hungrily, each desperate for the other's sensual response.

Eventually, they forced themselves to stop, and a brief period of silence interspersed with some heavy breathing followed before Phoebe commented simply: "Wow."

"Yes…wow," Arnold concurred.

"I…I suppose," the normally erudite Phoebe was struggling to find words, "I suppose we should get some dinner. Don't you think?"

Arnold, equally in a blissful haze replied: "Yeah, dinner sounds good."

Just then, Phoebe's phone rang. She answered, letting Arnold hear her half of the dialogue.

"Hello?...Oh hello, Foutley!...Already? That was quick!... Are you sure you weren't detected?... Thank goodness!...Yes?...Corporate account, you say?... Only one authorized signer?... Are you sure?... Are you positive?... Oh my god!...No, thanks for the information. Bye."

She turned back to Arnold and relayed Foutley's information to him: the corporation name and the authorized signer. She then watched Arnold as the color drained from his face and he became engulfed in a vortex of fear, sorrow, and rage. She had to admit to herself: she was feeling the same emotions. 

* * *

They were waiting for the first responders.

Minutes ago, Vasquez had called in an officer-involved shooting at their location then placed his weapon on the desk before waiting with the old man. Accompanying them was Santalov's seated corpse, the battle-hardened captain's granite features making him look intimidating even in death. His eyes were still wide open, still in their final act of realizing Vasquez's betrayal and viewing his own impending death.

"Detective," the old man eventually spoke, "the late Mister Santalov implied that his demise could be traced to you having sex with someone you really should have dealt with more appropriately. As your new employer, I require full disclosure of the events."

Vasquez acceded to the request and detailed all events leading up to and including the present. He mentioned the primary roles of Phoebe Heyerdahl, the heretofore unidentified person designated "Brainy" and the bounty hunter Arnold Shortman.

The old man's demeanor did a sudden about-turn upon the mention of Arnold's name. Cold indifference gave way to searing rage. "Arnold Shortman? Are you certain?" he asked, in a measured tone that he was now struggling to maintain.

To which Vasquez gave a very brief summary of whatever history he could obtain on Arnold Shortman.

"Damn!" The old man grumbled, any notion of even-headedness seemingly forgotten. "The boy just doesn't know how to stay down! He should have died years ago! Remember what I told you about loose ends in my organization, Detective? Well, he's the biggest fucking loose end I've ever had!"

"Excuse me, Sir," the detective ventured, "but do you have a history with this man, this…Arnold Shortman?"

"Yes I do, Detective. But this matter is best discussed at a later time. Listen." Through the open door, they heard the approaching voices of the first responders. The old man continued, having reclaimed his vocal poise: "Your friends are here. Time to put on our show. Oh, and Detective, my name. It's Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck."

_Of course!_ Vasquez remembered the name of the property developer tried and convicted after the FTi scandal that…wait, didn't that happen shortly before the Sunset Arms incident? But before he could give the matter further thought, he heard the calls from outside in the passage: "Vasquez! You alright?"

"Dutifully he replied: "Over here. Suspects are down! Repeat, suspects are down!"

The policemen arrive and were witness to Scheck's most convincing acting skills as he clung to Detective Mark Vasquez while blubbering: "Oh thank you, Officer, thank you! That animal was about to have me killed…"

The first responders surveyed the scene with smiles all around: It looked clear-cut enough so at least they'd get to go home early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Hopefully Santlov's early demise caught you off-guard. I fully wanted him to be the main villain until I realized that Scheck would make a more compelling villain. Plus, I now have a chance to offer my take on what happened to him after the first Hey Arnold movie.
> 
> Author's Note #2: I'm not going for a totally realistic setting; rather, I'm adding elements of realism to the Hey Arnold universe. One such element I believe can be seen in the fast development of Arnold and Phoebe's relationship, in that I've implied that both of them are adults who have embraced a world where YOLO, FOMO and Swiping Right are things.
> 
> Author's Note #3: Spotify Playlist that inspired me this chapter:  
Why - Annie Lennox  
'Two Hearts Collide - Level 42  
Silence - Level 42  
The Edge - Nigel Stanford.  
That's it for now. See you next chapter!


	8. Get Used To The New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Arnold and Phoebe's investigation reveals that Santalov may not be quite the all-powerful figure the public believes he is. Vasquez impresses his potential new employer. Arnie's deed of heroism leads Phoebe to say more to Arnold that she maybe should have. A new player is dealt into the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

The story was all over the news. "_Hero Detective Rescues Businessman From Violent Russian Thug_" was probably the least flattering of the headlines. The common thread: Detective Vasquez acts on an anonymous tip, investigates possible murder-in-progress in Santalov's penthouse; shows up in time to prevent murder of prominent businessman; commendation forthcoming.

_Shit!_ The news had caught even him off-guard.

Santalov: dead.

His organization: dead.

Scheck: until today, held to ransom by Santalov into providing financial support for the latter's organization.

_Yeah, right!_ Brainy wasn't buying that last one.

Santalov's properties: to be transferred to FTI.

_OK, that I can believe!_

Damn, Scheck had pulled off the ultimate illusion and fooled even him.

Back then everyone in the neighborhood had considered the FTI matter resolved once Scheck was arrested, including Brainy who now – eighteen years after the fact – was digging up whatever information on the old man he could find.

The intel profiled a cunning individual with a long-game mentality. A man of vast resources, far-reaching influence and, most worryingly, patience. A deadly man to those who had wronged him.

Following his arrest after the FTI scandal, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was indicted for fraud and for four counts of attempted second-degree murder with aggravating circumstances (three of the intended victims being minors). The Prosecution's case rested on good evidence that included eyewitness testimony from Arnold and Helga. The case, however, never went to trial. Scheck's legal team had sensed the futility of a prolonged trial and chose instead to have their client allocute in exchange for more favorable sentencing recommendations. The attempted murder charges each carried a penalty of ten years, while for the fraud he was looking at fifteen years given its magnitude. The deal his team made saw him serve the sentences concurrently.

Despite Scheck's conviction, FTI emerged relatively unscathed from the scandal; since it was its own separate legal entity, and he'd admitted to having acted in his personal capacity, the company itself was spared any criminal investigations. An out-of-court class action settlement with the neighborhood residents didn't even dent its finances and it continued its business as usual. Even a drop in the share price was a short-term affliction, and before long FTI's balance sheet had returned to its profitable normal.

That was as far as the court records at his disposal took Brainy; he'd have to look into the BOP databases for more information on the man's incarceration. But now, a rest; it was evening, and he was starving. Before logging off from his desktop PC and stepping out of his domicile, he forwarded what he had found out to a certain Miss Heyerdahl.

His home, such as it was, was a nondescript brownstone in a nondescript part of Hillwood. He found the building's profile – and that of the neighborhood as a whole – well suited for his purposes. The neighborhood was lower-middle-class, unassuming, discreet. No nosey neighbors but also no regular visits from law enforcement.

Given the nature of the new target he was pursuing, he reckoned he'd be relying on those two qualities more than ever. 

* * *

"Yes, I got your mail. Thanks so much!"

Prior to that confirmation, Phoebe had been pacing across the motel room, while Arnold lay face down again on the bed, scrutinizing the laptop for any overlooked snippets of information. Prior to _that_, they had rushed back to the motel room, arriving breathlessly and giving several fellow guests the wrong impression – "_That's_ the spirit!" quoth the desk clerk. Their actual intent was to excavate as much information on Scheck as possible with what little resources they had at their immediate disposal. _Forewarned is forearmed_ if the saying was to be believed.

Phoebe ended the call and joined Arnold on the bed: "Well, anything new?"

"Not since you asked…oh…about two minutes ago."

News coverage of Santalov's demise was confined to the local stations in and around Hillwood. Those reports unsettled Phoebe greatly. They depicted Detective Mark Vasquez as the hero cop, acting on his intuition and initiative to act on an anonymous tip, ultimately rescuing a helpless captive business leader: it made her sick to her stomach. She'd had sex with him, and now she suspected he was part of the organization she was investigating. Christ Almighty, he might even have organized the attempt on her life at Arnold's place!

"Arnold, check the mail. My BOP contact mailed us all the data on Scheck's incarceration," she requested as she slid closer beside him, the better to study the laptop together.

Brainy's mail had arrived pretty much when they reached the room, according to his email's timestamp. Phoebe had presented this as Exhibit A of Brainy's intel-gathering skills, to which Arnold had expressed relief at Brainy seeming to be on their side. Phoebe followed up by reaching out to a contact in the BOP, whom she persuaded to share whatever the bureau had on Scheck's remand.

Hence the BOP mail.

Arnold obliged: "Got it!" He opened the attachment and pored over it for the relevant facts: date and venue. Scheck's allocution and sentencing occurred roughly three months after his arrest, with the latter lasting 15 years at WSP.

"Hold it!" exclaimed Phoebe. "That's maximum security! How'd an old white-collar individual like him survive that level of incarceration?"

"Want to hear another crazy thought?" Arnold teased seriously.

Phoebe sighed back in resignation: "Go ahead. I think we're down to crazy thoughts, anyway."

"OK, you know you're going to jail for fifteen years. It scares the shit out of you, so you'll want to make sure nothing bad comes your way. Plus, you still have access to a multi-billion dollar company and its resources…"

Phoebe nodded; she could see where Arnold was heading. "Yes! Yes! You'd reach out to whoever would take you up on an offer to protect you. Maybe offer them a sizable monthly income, maybe some luxurious prison contraband! Arnold, you're brilliant! Let me check the BOP list again to see if any of Santalov's soldiers were serving time when Scheck was remanded."

Sure enough, half a dozen names were revealed whom Phoebe recognized from her prior research as lower-level Santalov associates. This, they inferred, was Scheck's foot in the door.

Phoebe postulated: "So it's his money and his friends' survival skills. No doubt he bribed their way to an easier life inside. I mean, look at this." She studied the readout once more: "Nothing whatsoever of Scheck ever getting into trouble, nor of his associates. No visits to solitary or the infirmary."

"Who in turn send word to their boss about a new moneyman," Arnold speculated further.

"Hence, the start of a beautiful friendship," concluded Phoebe. "And of a mutually beneficial arrangement. Can we go back to the bank statements, please? See if they go back fifteen or so years."

He did and they did. Soon they were back perusing Santalov's old bank statements, more thoroughly this time. "Found it!" Phoebe declared triumphantly. 'It' was Scheck's first payment to Santalov, dated the same month during which he started his sentence.

They paused, both staring vacantly at the screen.

"Do you think maybe…" Phoebe ventured, "just maybe…that the Sunset Arms was less an unfortunate accident and more a premeditated act with malicious aforethought?"

The mood turned grim suddenly. Phoebe persisted regardless: "I mean, Scheck never seemed the type to let bygones be bygones…"

"Crazy, isn't it?" responded Arnold, liking neither the sudden silence nor Phoebe's infallible logic. 

* * *

The crime scene investigation was perfunctory at best, a show for the press that full protocol was being followed. Somehow even the District Attorney made it in time for the news crews, to whom he categorically proclaimed that the matter was a straightforward case of justifiable homicide to protect a civilian in immediate danger. The gathered press lapped up the story. Santalov was a feared figure in Hillwood – hated…but feared nonetheless – whose demise led to no tears being shed and no probing questions being asked.

That was two hours ago. The police had packed up and left, Santalov and his boys were chilling in the morgue and the press was off looking for the next big story. This left only Detective Vasquez with Alphonse Scheck in Santalov's penthouse, which the latter was studying in absolute revulsion.

"I swear, Detective, money certainly brings out the vulgarity in some people," he declared as he surveyed the overdone decadence of the suite. "Really, who needs a water feature in each room? And three fridges in the kitchen! _Three_!"

"So what happens now?" the detective asked.

"This building? It stays, of course! Apparently, Vitaly gave – _gave _– most of the suites to those he deemed especially loyal. The building is a loss, but it does help come tax season. So, for now, I'm honoring his arrangement."

"No, Sir! I mean what's my next job. I mean, I'm now solidified as a hero cop of Hillwood PD. I can only assume that there's a task lined up for me as payment."

"Why so impatient, Son? Enjoy the new commendation to your name! Knock yourself out in the liquor cabinets!"

"Sir, I'm still on duty," he said as if his badge and his duty still mattered to him.

"A fine asset you are," Scheck commented in earnest. "You do know the accounting definition of an asset, right?" He answered his own question: "_Anything tangible or intangible that can be owned or controlled to produce value and that is held by a company to produce positive economic value._"

Detective Mark Vasquez, reduced to a balance sheet entry.

Scheck continued: "Anyway if you insist on being a good little resource, your task is eliminating that do-gooder pain in the ass, Arnold Shortman!" His tone became bitter at the mere mention of Arnold's name.

"But Sir, he's ex-military. He saw off twelve of Santalov's lieutenants when they encountered him."

"Vitaly? Hah! Vitaly was all brute force and no nuance. No understanding. You at least will have an edge."

"How so?"

Alphonse Scheck snapped a finger, which summoned a bodyguard bearing a brown cardboard folder which she presented to the detective. Vasquez accepted the gift and studied the cover. Scheck interrupted, offering further commentary: "Understanding the contents of that folder may assist you in bringing the quarry to you instead. Be sure to study its contents well. Oh, and since you insist on still being on duty, I'll leave you to let yourself out."

As Vasquez exited the building, he made another attempt at studying the folder. The writing on the cover was faded, most likely the result of years of inadequate storage. He could, however, make out a _Dr_. _Bliss_. The initials had faded away, so too most of the medical credentials. What was left legible pegged Dr. Bliss as a psychologist, a child psychologist at that. He searched for the patient's name and was shocked to find written: _Helga Geraldine Pataki_.

_Helga Pataki_? He was familiar with the name, but how exactly was _she_ the key to killing Arnold Shortman? 

* * *

He was on his way back after dinner which comprised pierogi and a Yahoo when the Crown Vic pulled up alongside him with the rear window open.

"Get in." Smith was agitated, but Brainy did as told.

"OK, I admit it. I fucked up," said Brainy once inside. Smith motioned to the driver to start driving before responding: "Son, we all fucked up. We all thought that Santalov was the Alpha and Omega. Never thought that his strings were being pulled."

Brainy could only nod in regret. Smith had a question: "What does this mean for your friend Shortman?"

"Hell, he's in more danger now and he knows it! Santalov had no beef with him, but with Scheck…Fuck, a man who always got what he wanted. A man who Arnold help send to prison. A man without mercy, who _lost_ to Arnold. You bet your ass this is personal for Scheck. He's out to get him!"

"That's what I thought." Smith's tone was dour. "For what it's worth, Son, you still have my support, even if the new guy's about a billion times worse than the old one."

"Seriously?" Brainy had never allowed himself to be taken aback by anything, but Smith's last sentence did just that. He'd expected Smith's assistance to cease with the death of Santalov but no, here was Smith offering his continued support. "Look, just forget why I'm helping you and remember that Arnold and his crazy friends were like the family I never had. You were right in the park. I owe it to them to see this matter through to the end."

With that statement, Brainy was reminded of how he roped Smith into his furtive enterprise. Following the Sunset Arms disaster, Brainy had started gathering any information he could surrounding the event. He stumbled across the list of current tenants for The Sunset Arms, where he noted a _Mr. Smith_ who was a year behind on his rent while the Sunset Arms still stood and was not listed among the deceased.

Brainy put two and two together to get five: Smith was somehow involved in the destruction. He traced the man to a secretive government department in Hillwood. Eventually, he confronted Smith, who was able to prove his innocence after which he very politely instructed Brainy to fuck off.

Brainy did as told but continued looking into Smith. Two things post-explosion had bothered him: Arnold's quick adoption that was too readily approved by CPS and his equally speedy approval to emigrate to San Lorenzo. Using his keen listening skills together with his ability to gain access and blend in anywhere, he was able to link Smith to the fast-tracking of both events.

Brainy now saw in Smith a potential ally, so he paid the latter another visit. Only this time he was prepared; he threatened to report Smith to his department's ethics committee for misusing state resources to help Arnold. Such was Smith's luck that he happened to work in possibly the only department in which ethics and oversight still meant a damn. Brainy had Smith by the proverbial gonads and so coerced his co-operation. Smith would provide access to the department's computer and satellite network, which Brainy used to establish himself as the best damn CI along the Pacific Northwest; all before his eighteenth birthday. When Smith realized how Brainy was using the intel he was gathering – putting seemingly untouchable criminals behind bars – he started minding less and less. Brainy's activities had awakened Smith's long-dormant sense of justice and thus had earned Smith's begrudging respect.

Even so, Brainy was touched by Smith's current offer to see the Scheck matter through to the end.

"My stop's coming up," Brainy said as they approached a random intersection. Then as he disembarked: "And Smith? Thanks."

"One last thing, Brainy. Am I ever going to know your real name?" Brainy's real name had eluded even the resources of Smith's department.

"You first," replied Brainy as he disappeared into the surroundings. 

* * *

"Arnold, I know you're awake. No point in pretending to be asleep."

They had decided to share the bed with Arnold as close to the one edge as possible, curled up away from Phoebe, and Phoebe likewise on the other side. It was neither's first time sharing a bed; it was their first time with each other. They'd made another agreement: No more talk of Scheck for the rest of the day, nor of any of the crazy sequence of events that started when Phoebe knocked on Arnold's door a little over twenty-four hours prior. Which left them with what, exactly?

That was two hours ago. Here they were, both showered, both clad in their morning sleepwear ensembles, both fed from takeout from the sushi bar – that Phoebe still couldn't believe had a market in such a rural town – and both unable to sleep.

"You got me," Arnold admitted. "Probably still the adrenaline from today. Hasn't subsided yet."

"Same here," Phoebe admitted. "You know, as a reporter, I have received my share of death threats. At first, I was really worried. I even took a firearms training course. But I didn't like carrying a gun around, so I switched to the taser."

"Did it help?"

"Not really. Mostly because the callers were gutless cowards who couldn't follow through on their threats. Some were stupid enough to call from their own phones instead of burners. Those I took to the police to handle matters. Never heard from them again."

"So…this morning was nothing new, right?"

"Arnold, need I remind you that you are venturing outside our agreed-upon subject parameters?"

"Overridden," was his terse reply.

_Convenient_, thought Phoebe, but she answered nonetheless: "This morning was different. I was actually in the thick of the action with bullets flying all over the place. I admit I was scared...like I suddenly realized I was dealing with someone who would actually follow up with his threats."

They were facing away from each other, so Arnold could not see her trembling hands as she was recalling the morning's shootout. She continued: "But then when you told me we were going to make it…well, I believed you. I trusted you. With my life. How do you do it, Arnold? How do you force yourself to believe that you'll overcome impossible odds?"

Another simple answer: "Somebody has to."

Emboldened by the direction of the conversation, Phoebe ventured: "Arnold, ever had someone profoundly betray you? I mean besides Lasombra."

"You mean like how what's-his-name…Vasquez…betrayed you? I believe that subject falls outside our agreed-upon subject parameters, air quotes."

_No way_, thought Phoebe. No way was he going to brush off that question, so she countered: "No way, Mister! Consider your override still in force!"

Defeated once more by her logic, Arnold answered: "Nothing as extreme as that. Nothing that put my life at risk." Some thought, then: "Wait a minute. There was a time way back when...remember Frankie G? He became friends with me then tried robbing a music store and framing me for it. Gerald saved my ass that night, otherwise, I'd have been in juvie for sure. That's about as bad as it got."

A chuckle from Phoebe: "Oh thanks! Now I'm having this mental image of you as a hardened juvenile convict."

"Yeah, ha-ha!" Arnold's voice was weary, but in reality, he was enjoying this opportunity to talk about anything with Phoebe. "While you're there, how do I look in my orange jumpsuit?"

"Featureless. That prison garb does little to highlight your wiry musculature." _Did I just say that out loud?_ She muttered internally the instant the words left her mouth. Too late, for Arnold had caught on. "Excuse me? Care to repeat that last part?"

_GREAT!_ Phoebe's inner grumbling continued. _I just talked myself into a corner. Time to go on the offensive._ "Like you haven't noticed me in that way! Don't think I didn't notice you glimpse my way during the gunfight when you entered the bedroom! Did you like what you saw, by the way?"

"I've seen better," was Arnold's dry reply, for which he was rewarded with a hard whack from Phoebe's pillow. Then another. Then a full-on goose down barrage. "Fuck you, Arnold Shortman!" her voice conveyed playfulness, not anger as she continued pelting him. Arnold was eventually able to turn towards her, trap her and her pillow and after a short frolic there they were, all smiles, Arnold flat on his back with Phoebe straddling his chest.

"You didn't let me finish," Arnold continued. "I've also seen a lot, _lot_ worse."

"Oh?" Phoebe played along. "And where do I rank, hmm? Top fifty percent?"

"Definitely," Arnold answered, and Phoebe leaned in closer.

"Top twenty-five percent?" a huskier voice, sexier. Closer.

"Easily."

"Top decile?" no change in her tone. Closer still.

"Not exactly sure where that is, but...OK."

"Oh, why not admit it? You enjoy kissing me and will say anything to score another one!" Sexy, playfully stern, wholly irresistible.

"Guilty as charged," he conceded as he brought her lips to his.

And so there was sex.

Physical. Mechanical. Basic. Primal.

Sex.

Arnold: seated on the bed, back against the backrest.

Phoebe: straddling him in only her periwinkle sleepshirt.

Stimuli for Arnold: All from Phoebe, all Phoebe.

Phoebe: rocking to the rhythm of his thrusts.

Phoebe: face glistening from her exertion.

Phoebe: sleepshirt clinging to her upper body, teasing its contours.

Phoebe: breath quickening, becoming shallower; more urgency to her moans.

Phoebe: the pitch of her voice sharpening ever so gradually.

Phoebe: muscles tightening, spasming, head cocking back in a violent whiplash motion as he issued forth within her.

And so they remained, gazing at each other, studying each other. Arnold had his hands around Phoebe's waist; she had hers around his neck. This wasn't enough for Arnold. He'd had her, but he wanted more. To explore every square inch of her being, as he rested his right hand on her thigh before running up her flank to her breast which he cupped and gently squeezed and briefly fondled, all to more of her husky moaning. More still, as he moved his hand up along her shoulder, neck before settling on her cheek. Now they were staring deeply into each other, breathing settling, warm breaths mingling, heartbeats almost palpably running amok.

He wanted more. _All_ of her and her beauteous self. Not just this action. Not just how she had made him feel. He wanted _her_. He wanted her as he moved in for a deep kiss, which she accepted with a slip of her tongue to which he reciprocated. _All of her_, he reminded himself as their tongues probed and twisted.

Then, it stopped. Her eyes shot open and she flinched away from him. A moment of dazed silence, uncertainty, then: "Arnold, can I be excused to the bathroom, please?"

Five or so minutes later, there she was, in the bathroom, looking in the mirror. What exactly was that looking back at her? Regret? Guilt? Certainly a sense of _what the hell just happened_. Mixed with a bit of _did I really let things get that far?_

"Everything OK in there?" called Arnold from the bedroom.

"I'm fine!" Phoebe replied. Except, she wasn't. Not quite, anyway. Phoebe had splashed her face countless times in a vain quest for clarity. She had to come clean, she had to tell him. But how? At his core, he was still the sweet, helpful boy he'd always been. How else could she explain his risking his life to help her? How could she tell him now that sex with him was her rebound from Mark's betrayal? _By being honest and forthright with him_, she resolved to the uncertainty staring back at her in the mirror.

_OK, showtime_, she steeled herself for what had to be said.

"Hey, Arnold…about what just happened," she was standing at the foot of the bed, a suddenly serious expression on her face.

Arnold reassured her: "Sorry, I was tired. Rough day."

"It's not that, Arnold. You were amazing," she wasn't lying. "It's just that…Oh, Arnold, I think I might have used you for my convenience."

Arnold sat at a loss for words. Moments later: "You're talking about that Vasquez character, right?"

"Yes," she proceeded gingerly. "More specifically, his involvement in this whole matter may have contributed to my eagerness to engage in this…activity."

Arnold quirked an eyebrow at her frankness and was about to respond when she cut him off: "Wait, let me continue. Yes, I'm glad to have met you after all these years. I mean, if a had a choice for a rebound sex partner, it would be you. I mean, I mean…" Now she was rambling, but she continued. "Remember Romeo and Juliet, you as Romeo? Well, I was one of the girls originally cast as Juliet and I remember Rhonda saying just how she wouldn't mind having to kiss you and me agreeing with her that it would be kind of…nice and…"

"Phoebe, hush," Arnold spoke, and her rambling ceased. "Listen, I don't think any less of you. And as for that fuckwit Mark or whatever his name is? Well, bless his shriveled, maggot-infested heart for driving you this way."

"Arnold, please! More than any time, I need you to be serious _now_!"

"I _am_ serious! I owe the guy big time for what just happened. And please, just let me have my fantasy as the stud who made you forget all about your lifetime of hurt and emotional suffering."

_Well if he puts it like that_, she thought, figuring that there was no point in further argument, bargaining or rationalization. With that, her expression switched to mock sternness. With that, she slowly and deliberately undid the buttons of her sleepshirt before easing out of it. She presented herself to Arnold, wearing only her sexiest smile: "OK, hotshot. You ready for a second round?"

Arnold directed her attention to his crotch, where she found him still at rock-solid attention.

"Why not come over and find out?" his smile matched hers.

Her reply recalled her voice from P.S. 118: "Coming!"

About twenty minutes later, she was. 

* * *

Detective Mark Vasquez arrived home on Monday evening to a stinging slap from his wife.

"That's for your latest boneheaded stunt!" she chastised. "And this…" she didn't finish the sentence because now she was all over him, showering hugs, kisses and adulations upon him. Then, when she was done: "But don't ever do something so irresponsible again!" Followed by more displays of affection.

She had seen, heard or read the breaking news of the brave police detective who singlehandedly and against almost insurmountable odds defanged Hillwood's most feared – alleged – criminal organizations, effectively ending it.

The celebration moved from the front door all the way to the bedroom where Vasquez was reminded – to his admitted pleasure – of his wife's carnal techniques. Eventually, they were lying in bed, she atop of him with a glow on her face reflecting several lifetimes' worth of bliss. Unfortunately, his own pleasure had been curtailed when his thoughts turned to Phoebe, at which point he felt…conflicted.

Here he was, Hillwood PD's latest, greatest poster boy. The culmination of a string of events starting with his involvement with Phoebe.

Here he was also, neck-deep in the organization of Alphonse Scheck, effectively contracted to kill a man he hadn't even met under threat of his life and his wife's. Also the culmination of a string of events starting with his involvement with Phoebe.

"Mark, is something wrong?" his wife asked after their copulation. "You seemed a little out of it." As perceptive as ever; how long could he keep his shitstorm a secret from her?

"Nothing, just police work is all."

She pressed a finger against his lips: "Now, Mark, no shoptalk in the boudoir!"

All he could do was touch her cheek before stroking her short blonde hair. She may have been seven years his senior but damn she was gorgeous! Santalov had been right all along; if he hadn't stuck his dick in 'that fucking reporter' he'd still be in the frying pan with which he was much better accustomed than with the raging inferno in which he currently found himself.

"What's this?" she remarked. "You still have work on your mind? Allow me to remedy that!"

With that said she slunk on him and administered him orally.

"Olga Pataki-Vasquez," he declared between groans of ecstasy, "sometimes I think I don't deserve you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: With the sex scenes, my aim in describing then was 'vivid, but not graphic'. Hopefully, I succeeded in that goal. Note too that the Arnold/Phoebe scene is described in more detail to highlight how invested Arnold is in the moment (it is after all written from his perspective.), whereas Vasquez/Wife is described more vaguely to show that he is not as invested due to his distractions.
> 
> Author's Note #2: I also had to give Brainy some more story time and develop his character some more. He'll be featuring more prominently in the next chapter, I promise.
> 
> Author's Note #3: Another element for the next chapter that I'm carefully considering is what car an adult Arnold would drive. I've narrowed the field down to three possibilities, not one of which is a Packard.
> 
> Author's Note #4: Spotify playlist standouts for this chapter.  
Keep Talking - Pink Floyd  
Every Little Thing (He) Does Is Magic - Shawn Colvin  
If You Asked Me To - Patti Labelle  
Falling Down - Oasis  
Coup D'Etat - Level 42


	9. Tell Him That It's Human Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Arnold and Phoebe dig deeper into Scheck's background and aren't encouraged by what they find. Scheck consolidates his position of power and tasks Vasquez with a not insignificant assignment. Arnold and Phoebe have an unintended consummation. Right, onward to the story!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

The brass at the precinct had given Detective Mark Vasquez the day off in the wake of the previous night's heroics. More time to gather insight and maybe get into the mind of Arnold Philip Shortman. The file comprised myriad notes and transcripts of Helga Pataki's visits to Dr. Bliss. One particular excerpt stood out:

> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: I love Arnold! There, I said it! I love him! I love him! Arnold! Arnold! Arnold! I'm absitively posolutely in love with the boy! I want to grow up having a fabulous life, traveling around the world with him! Coffee in Paris, roses, sailboats, the whole nine yards! I want to have a perfume named after us: 'Arnold Helga'! I Love ARNOLD!_

Here he was, home alone on a Tuesday morning poring through the Helga Pataki file for the umpteenth time. _Interesting but not particularly helpful_, Detective Mark Vasquez thought. Olga had told him repeatedly just how wonderful her baby sister was, but the file suggested that a lot of the facts were being sugar-coated. As a beat cop and as a detective he'd encountered several examples of such obsessions over other persons, none of which had ended well. Results varied from restraining orders, suicides, first-degree murder or any combinations thereof.

It was great to know all the hidden details of his late kid sister-in-law, but how was that going to help him against Arnold Shortman? Maybe, against all the better judgment in the world, Shortman also had feelings for the girl. Maybe something extraordinary happened that made him accept her feelings.

He then recalled and reread more intently a transcript from another meeting, which according to the date was Helga Pataki's final session. The final minutes were of particular interest:

> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: So he finally acknowledged his feelings for you after that rather…harrowing adventure, shall we say?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Don't forget the kiss at the temple, Doctor. Nine seconds of unbridled euphoria! Nine seconds! I calculated it. It would have been longer had we not been interrupted. If not, who knows? I might even have…_
> 
> "**_Dr. Bliss_**_: Wow, Helga. That sounds very…cathartic._
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: It was, Doctor it was! To think that he finally accepted my feelings!_
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: How certain are you of that?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Get this! Later on, he sort of proposed to me._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: Proposed? Sort of?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Well doi, not marriage! It's like he finally grew a pair and actually had a heart to heart with me. That he himself initiated!_
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: And how did that make you feel?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Really truly? I was scared at first. I mean, I always had my ideal of the moment when he'd finally confess his feelings to me. Soft lighting, solitude, heck, every hackneyed convention under the sun! But no, the footballhead chooses a Central American airport terminal to make his feelings known._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: Oh?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Let me rephrase that. He chooses a Central American airport terminal to make his feelings public. Public! In front of exactly, and I mean exactly, all of the people that I don't want to know about us! You ask me how did I feel about being called out in the open? Scared out of my mind, that's how!_
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: And your response?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: You see, Doc, either he was extremely lucky, or he had planned for the moment in advance. Effectively I was trapped. I couldn't retreat. I couldn't run away. Otherwise, I'd miss my flight home and still be subsisting in the tropics._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: So you spoke frankly to him?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: More like the other way round. He did all the talking. Things about gaining perspective, realizing he could have lost me and how much it frightened him. Would you believe he even swore at me? 'Dammit Helga, that's enough!' Any other time, I'd have decked him. That's why I said he must have grown a pair._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: Why do you think he'd do that?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: I suppose he already knew from the FTI matter that I…didn't hate him. Since FTI I didn't seem to have as much antipathy towards him. You could say that sometimes we even got along semi-normally. Then I think back to the airport, where I'm trapped and reverting to the hard exterior. I don't think he was having any of that…hence 'Dammit, Helga!'_
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: Helga, our session is almost over. One last question and I promise I'm not being sarcastic: Did your world come to an end afterward? After your heart to heart, shall we say?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Honestly, I was in Heaven! He took the initiative! And he kissed me. Again! And it was so much better than at the temple! He showed me that being honest with my feelings was not the end of the world. I believe that's what you'd call 'progress'. Something to build on._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: Certainly, Helga. And I look forward to our next meeting to hear more of your progress._
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki: _ ** _No, thank you, Doc. For everything. Now if you don't mind, I have to book! The footballhead's having a rooftop soiree for the San Lorenzo gang and I'm looking forward to being with my beloved._

_Interesting_. So it seemed that Helga Pataki's death at the Sunset Arms might have sent young Arnold off the deep end. Nationwide coverage of him telling Robert Pataki to fuck off and his subsequent withdrawal from society seemed to reinforce Vasquez's conclusion.

_Promising_. Maybe the detective could use her death as leverage to blunt the army man's tactical edge. He'd still have to lure Shortman back to Hillwood, _if_ the bastard wasn't already planning to come back anyway and take the fight to whoever was in charge. Phoebe too, because Vasquez reckoned no way would she not have started digging into Scheck. Two loose ends, waiting to be dealt with.

Then there was the mention of Brainy in the first session:

> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: So I hit him, so what? Brainy, he doesn't mind. I do it all the time. What? You would sock him too if he was standing behind you breathing._

_Too many coincidences_, his analytical mind reflected.

Brainy: Phoebe's spook.

Brainy: Classmate of Phoebe, Shortman and also Helga Pataki.

Brainy: Being mentioned by Helga Pataki.

_What's the connection? _More deliberation. Another, more in-depth look at the transcripts. _Aha_! Also on the final session:

> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: So tell me. This…Brainy, is it? Has your situation with him changed at all?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Nope, he's still behind my back most of the time with that creepy wheeze of his._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: And you're still bothered with his, shall we say, behavioral quirks?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Not really. He's completely harmless. And…as it happens, very kindly in his own twisted way._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: How so?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Well, there was a point during our San Lorenzo trip when I was so frustrated with Arnold that I gave up on him. I shunned him. I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him! Then Brainy came along and encouraged me, reminded me of my love of Arnold._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: How did he do that?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: See this locket? Notice how the picture of Arnold is torn up? I did it when the footballhead frustrated me beyond the breaking point. I was all 'last straw mode engaged'. Tore it up, tossed everything in the river. Then – get this! – Brainy somehow sees me doing this. Then behind my back, he dives into the river with its strong currents, crocodiles and who knows what else. In the dark, in the freaking dark! Somehow he's able to find the locket and enough pieces to put together and present it all back to me. That's when I knew…_

That's when Detective Mark Vasquez knew what the man called Brainy's angle was and also how to find him. 

* * *

_That's so you, Arnold_. Those were Phoebe's thoughts upon the revelation.

They were back at Arnold's place now that CSU had wrapped up their investigations and as a courtesy to Arnold, boarded up all the shot-out windows. They were preparing for the journey back to Hillwood. For what, they didn't exactly know. But given the resources and ruthlessness of Alphonse Scheck, they had figured that if a major confrontation was imminent then it would be best played out away from Arnie, Hilda and the many residents of the town that Arnold had come to love.

Phoebe's morning had properly started in the motel room, where she quietly reflected on the previous night while Arnold was showering. As a lover, in terms of robustness and durability, he'd been at least on par with any of her previous partners. But he had the whole lot beat in terms of consideration, tenderness, and also attentiveness; with each session he prioritized her enjoyment, making her feel more like an active participant than an accessory. Each aftermath was characterized by his warm, tight, intimate embrace and his sweet nothings, none of which ever broke the mood. That he had a rakishly muscular physique did not hurt his appeal, and the numerous scars across his body only added to his mystique.

Once both were showered and fed, they were brought back to Arnold's home by one of Arnie's deputies. From there the place was abuzz with their scurried packing. Then came the revelation of Arnold's car in which the journey would be made. Phoebe had it pegged as either a truck or a muscle car.

The revelation was different: a VW Golf GTi, the Mk 5 version, red. In many ways, Phoebe appraised, the car reflected Arnold: a smallish but deceptively talented all-rounder.

_That's so you, Arnold._

As they were loading the vehicle, Arnie pulled up the driveway in his cruiser. He alighted to the couple's greetings.

"Morning, everyone."

"Sheriff!" from Phoebe. "How are you this morning? How about Hilda? Is she OK?"

"She's fine, Miss Heyerdahl. Not a scratch on her. The doctors just decided to keep her overnight for observation. She put up a fight, but they eventually convinced her."

"Thank goodness!" Phoebe's relief was audible.

"Arnie," from Arnold. "Here to see us off?"

"Something like that," Arnie replied. "Now that your case is officially closed, I figure you might want this back." With that, he presented Arnold's holstered Glock and spare magazines to him. "And for you, Miss Heyerdahl…" he turned his attention to Phoebe, "a gift from Hilda. She figures you might be needing it." For her, he produced a small holstered revolver – Arnold recognized it as a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard – and presented it to her.

Before Phoebe could protest, Arnie interrupted: "Don't worry, Miss Heyerdahl. She took this off a meth dealer some years ago. No serial number, plus she cleaned it up real good, _and_ it will always trace back to the drug-dealing bastard should you have any need to use it. Assuming that he'll still be alive."

"It's all nice of Hilda, really," said Phoebe, "but I can't accept."

"You don't understand. This is because Hilda believes you'll be needing it sooner than you think," Arnie rebutted. "And Hilda is never wrong about these things."

"_Never_," Arnold backed him up. "Make it easy on yourself and accept it. Trust me." Then to Arnie: "Arnie, what did she load it with?"

"Glaser Blues all around," Arnie replied.

Arnold immediately turned to Phoebe and said with simple insistence: "Phoebe, take it!" Phoebe had no choice but to accept Hilda's consideration and generosity. "Thanks, I guess," she answered with some uncertainty.

Arnie turned back to Arnold: "So, you're taking the fight back to Hillwood?"

"If there's going to be a fight, it's my fight and I'd rather take it there. Um, can I ask you to watch the house after I'm gone? You still got your set of keys, right? Also, I'm only taking the Glock and the Black Widow. I'm not sure Hillwood would look kindly on open carrying rifles and shotguns, so can you please look after those as well?"

"Sure, consider it done."

At which point Arnold received a prod in his ribs from Phoebe's elbow. "Hey! Don't forget this is my fight as well. It's _our_ fight!"

"What she said," corrected Arnold while blenching from the prod.

"Any idea when you'll be returning?" Arnie asked with a grave undertone in his voice, as if he knew what the answer would be.

Arnold matched his grave tone: "Sorry, but I'm not sure. This is big-league shit here. I'll…_we'll_…be done when we're done."

"Sure wish I could help more," protested Arnie.

"Arnie, you're possibly my last blood relation. And soon you're going to be a father for god's sake! I've lost enough family and I don't want…" Arnie cut in with a bear-hug of an embrace: "I know, Coz, I know." Arnold returned the embrace and followed up with: "I'll fucking deny this if I'm ever asked to repeat it, but you've become more like a brother to me and I love you, man!"

After the cousins' embrace, Phoebe stepped up to Arnie: "Arnie, thank you for taking care of Arnold and thank you for all the help you've been." With that said, she planted a kiss on his cheek. "I truly regret not knowing you and Hilda for longer. I truly believe we all could be great friends."

"You know, That's just what Hilda said…" Arnie would have continued, but his radio crackled to life. "Sheriff, come in, please. Callout from the clinic. Deputy Hilda's contractions have started. She's gone into labor. She says, and I quote, if you're not here in five minutes then you're fucking dead. Over."

"On my way," Arnie replied with superficial calm. Then to the couple: "Sorry, gotta go! Take care!"

Arnie sped to his cruiser, knowing that Hilda's threat was not idle.

"Sheriff! One last thing!" Arnie stopped and turned towards them. Phoebe continued: "One more moment please!" She hurriedly retrieved her old phone and the power bank purchased the previous day, and just as hurriedly handed them to Arnie: "They tracked us here through my phone. In case they're still waiting for it to come back online so that they can resume tracking us again, can you perhaps help throw them off the scent? _Please_?"

"Fine fine fine! I'll give it to Foutley! He'll have them chasing you all the way to Newfoundland!" replied a now flustered Arnie as he clambered into his cruiser, then tore down the driveway in reverse before executing a screeching 270 spin on the main road and motoring towards the clinic with his siren at full peal.

Arnold and Phoebe were left behind to examine the aftermath of the precision driving spectacle.

"So, it's just you and me again," Arnold contemplated.

"Not that I'm complaining," answered Phoebe. 

* * *

_Brainy was in love with Helga!_

That was the only conclusion for Detective Mark Vasquez that fully explained his involvement.

Complication #1 for Brainy: Helga won't give him the time of day. Because Complication #2: Helga is borderline psychotically head over heels with Arnold.

So, undeterred by her rejection, the poor bastard keeps holding a torch for her. Then she dies and her death is officially ruled an accident, only he isn't buying it. So he keeps the torch burning, hoping to solve the mystery surrounding her death…in her honor. How fucking noble.

Detective Vasquez was walking through the local cemetery. He was looking for a specific place; he had a hypothesis he was testing. OK, so you're gaga over someone long dead. Doesn't matter that she'll never give you the time of day. Doesn't matter that she'll never ever return your feelings on account of her being dead. You'll want to ensure that her memory stays alive in your mind for as long as possible, but how? What's the best way to accomplish that? Visit her gravestone regularly, force yourself never to forget. Only, you happen to operate in the shadows, you're not keen on attracting attention. So you visit at the quietest possible times. Tuesday morning seemed as viable a time as any.

Detective Vasquez knew exactly where the grave was, and he also knew that its headstone was easily the best maintained amidst a vast expanse of cracked marble and weathered granite. He recalled Miriam mentioning how she maintained the site as penance for the daughter that she couldn't save. How she turned around a failing enterprise into profitability to prove that she was not a useless person, that maybe her lost daughter would look at her from the beyond and approve of the person her mother had become.

Onward he walked, scanning, observing.

Remembering.

Today he was good at remembering.

Remembering the handful of visits to the grave with Olga and her mother.

Olga's constant animosity towards Miriam. Olga's inevitably tearful breakdowns when reminiscing about '_my wonderful baby sister_'.

Miriam trying to comfort her surviving daughter.

Olga rejecting her mother's comfort, citing bitterly how she betrayed Daddy in court. Mark Vasquez defusing the situation and leading Olga back home with profuse apologies to Miriam.

Today, as with any other given day, a heavy air of mournful silence marked the location: an elderly griever here and there, gravediggers going about their business. Otherwise…the silence.

Then he spotted something promising: a slender man, about 5'11", stood in front of the gravestone. The man was dressed in light grey from head to toe: golf shirt, cargo pants, even his sneakers. He was placing a small teddy bear at the base of the stone.

His facial features came into better focus as the detective approached him, and their resemblance to the result of the facial aging software became more and more uncanny.

Finally, there he was: the man named Brainy! But something felt off. Although Brainy wasn't looking in the detective's direction, he projected an aura of expectation, that his being at this place at this very time was no coincidence.

Detective Vasquez slotted alongside Brainy and joined him in silently viewing the gravestone.

"**_Helga Geraldine Pataki_**

** _A Better Daughter Than Any Parent Deserved_ **

**_A Better Friend Than Any Person Could Want_**"

Miriam overcompensating. How touching.

"She must have meant a lot to you."

With no beat missed, Brainy replied: "She was no less than a goddess made flesh."

"Too bad her heart was always set on Arnold. How did it feel knowing you'd never be hers? Must have pissed you off royally."

"Not at all. I loved her enough to respect how she found her own happiness." Not even a whiff of emotion in his voice. He was not one to be easily riled up. The detective pressed on: "You know, if I found myself pining like this for someone who was never mine and now never will be, I'd check myself into the nearest funny farm. But that's just me." Maybe that would get a rise.

"Funny you should mention mental asylums, Detective," his tone remained flat. "Wasn't your wife once a guest at one such facility?"

The detective let his voice slip. "How'd you find out about that?" he sputtered. "Those records are sealed!"

"Records get sealed, but people talk and I listen. It's what I do, it's who I am."

"And just _who_ are you? I asked around, but no-one I've spoken to seems to know your name for sure. All sorts of names get thrown my way: Craig Viksten, Steve Bartlett, Larry Kolosov, the list goes on. Nobody seems to know for sure."

"Let them enjoy the chase, I say. I suppose you're here because you figured out my history with Arnold and Phoebe." _Fuck_, so he wasn't surprised. "I'd expect nothing less from Hillwood PD's hero detective."

"Just what's your angle here, Brainy or whatever the hell your name is? Your goddess died…what…seventeen years ago. From what I gather, you've been sitting on intel for god knows how long that could bring down my employers. Instead, you help out some reporter, get her in way over her head, send her to the goddess's boyfriend who for all we know has had so much ass over the years that he's completely forgotten about her."

That's when Brainy interrupted: "He hasn't forgotten. Believe me, he hasn't."

"Yeah? And how can you be certain?" Detective Vasquez inquired suspiciously. "You have a Psych degree I should know about?"

"I know people. I know _him_. I was there when the building collapsed. I looked him directly in his eyes when he realized he'd lost everything: the look of a boy who lost everything that made his life worth living. I'll never forget how broken he was. No way was he ever going to forget."

"I get it," Detective Vasquez's voice took on a scornful edge. "You couldn't save her, so now you're trying to save her boyfriend to honor her memory? Like that's ever going to bring her back! You're one dumb son of a bitch, you know?"

"You got it wrong. I'm not trying to save him. I'm looking to give him the closure he's been seeking all these seventeen years. I'm helping him help himself by dealing him back into your boss's sick game."

The detective was angered by that statement: "Damn you! This was all part of your plan, wasn't it? To use him to bring down Santalov and now Scheck?"

"What plan? All I'm doing is offering him a chance to do right by the people he lost."

"Yeah, and how come you're not among them? The reports placed you at ground zero when the building collapsed. How the fuck did you survive?"

"That's a story for another time," was all that Brainy offered.

"Oh, you think you're walking away from here? How about I run you in? Obstruction of Justice for a start. Suspicion of hacking and data theft. I'll think of more as we reach the station!"

Brainy remained calm even as the detective produced his handcuffs. "I _know_ I'm walking from here, Detective," his calm tone was grating the detective's nerves. "You see, I have many clients who employ my services. Mostly cops and DA investigators. Three of whom right now have in their possession flash drives which they don't yet know contain bank statements of a certain Vitaly Santalov, highlighting specifically the settlement of student loan debt incurred by one Mark César Vasquez and all subsequent payments made to an offshore account opened up in the name of…who else?... Olga Pataki-Vasquez." Detective Mark Vasquez froze.

"Which, by the way," continued Brainy, "is cold, even for you: dragging your wife into your mess. Don't you think she's had enough drama in her lifetime? Anyhow, I don't walk out of here on my own volition, the contents of the flash drives get opened, read and escalated. See where this is going?"

_Shit_, so he was prepared! "You bastard!" was all that Detective Vasquez could gather as an act of defiance towards Brainy. Defeated, he put the handcuffs away.

"It's not me you should worry about, Detective. It's Arnold," reminded Brainy. "He took down Scheck once before, he'll do it again. If I were you, I'd find a way to jump ship while I still can," With that, he started on his way. The detective stopped him with a firm hand on the shoulder. Brainy turned around into an oncoming right hook that connected sweetly with his left cheekbone. The impact was enough for a brief loss of motoneuron control from his brain to his legs, and moments later there he was on his knees, nursing a bruised and cut cheek together with a loud ringing inside his skull.

"Consider that a gift from your goddess," a contemptuous Mark Vasquez sneered. "She reckoned you wouldn't mind." Then as he turned to walk away: "You're lucky the old man only wants Arnold. You're lucky he doesn't consider you a threat. For now, at least. Now stay down until I'm gone!"

_No problem_. Brainy was left groggily waiting for the ringing inside his head to subside, which it eventually did.

"Better than expected," he reflected as he stood up, gathered the teddy bear and staggered on his way. 

* * *

"…and then…and then…" she struggled to contain her laughter, "after he's put the two beers on the counter, the bartender…the bartender says 'Damn, these mathematicians don't know their limits'!". No use. The mirth overcame her, and her uncontrollable laughter followed.

Arnold was not similarly overcome. "Oooooh! That's bad!" he replied, grateful for at least remembering the properties of convergent geometric sequences.

"Oh poo, Arnold!" pouted Phoebe. "That's the funniest joke I know! Maybe a bit too niche, too specific for general consumption, hmm?"

"Definitely," he agreed.

Arnold and Phoebe were three-and-a-bit hours into their journey to Hillwood. As urgent as both felt the underlying matter for their return was, they also felt that caution was key in the journey. So they were avoiding the highways and sticking with the backroads.

They did have a slight advantage, or so they hoped. An hour earlier, Foutley had called to announce that Phoebe's old phone was in his possession and that after some of his tinkering, anyone tracking the phone would believe that the couple had fled to Providence, Rhode Island. Arnold and Phoebe were not sure how much time he had bought them, only that they had to make the most of what they had.

Sometime after Foutley, it was Arnie who called and his exuberance spilled out of the phone's speaker as he announced the birth of his daughter, Arnold's niece.

"She looks just like her mother, man!" Arnie had exclaimed with what sounded like tearful joy, the most emotional anyone besides Hilda might have heard him.

"Great!" Arnold replied. "So she's guaranteed to be human!"

"Arnold!" Phoebe chided; Arnold's phone was on speaker for this call. "Don't listen to him, Arnie! He's being a jackass again!"

"When isn't he?" Arnie's joy had not subsided at all. "She's so beautiful. Just so, so beautiful."

From Phoebe: "And how is Hilda faring?"

"Exhausted. Medicated. She's resting right now. Who can blame her, right? Still, could have been worse. The baby could have resembled me!"

Arnold then chipped in: "That's what I was thinking. Kid with a head like yours or mine? Not enough meds in the world for that poor woman!"

"_Arnold_!" Phoebe sounded like a typical disapproving headmistress, although she had to concede that his point was a valid one. So did Arnie with his response: "It's not like he's lying, Miss Heyerdahl."

"Yes, I suppose that's a good point," Phoebe conceded and looked over to Arnold who was now sporting a self-satisfied smile. "Oh, shut up, Arnold!" she said in elfish disapproval. Then back to Arnie: "So does she have a name yet?"

"Nope. We haven't decided yet."

From an incredulous Arnold: "What? You mean nine months wasn't enough time?" This time he was speaking for Phoebe as well, as she nodded in agreement with Arnold's statement.

"Hey, we want to get it just right. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to be back with my family. You two take care and stay safe."

"Bye, Arnie!" the travelers called out in unison as the call came to an end.

Since then, their conversation had been dominated by small talk and telling each other the lamest jokes they could conjure.

When out of nowhere…

"You know," from a tentative Phoebe, "Helga wasn't the only one who liked you."

"Pardon?" Arnold asked while still giving the road exactly as much concentration as necessary.

"We all liked you, Arnold. Rhonda, Nadine…..me. For exactly the same reasons Helga liked you. It's just…long before San Lorenzo, we all deduced that her displays of hatred towards you were just _too _exaggerated and that she was protesting _too_ much about you. We all gave her space to see how it all would play out. Then she kissed you in Romeo and Juliet with that intensity and…that was that. We never told her to her face, but we knew she didn't fake it on-stage. And just like that, you were officially off the market."

Arnold's responsibility as the driver was the only reason he wasn't turned to face Phoebe at that moment. "But you ended up with Gerald," he spoke. "Are you saying he was your second choice?"

"Yes, once you were off-limits. Don't be mistaken, I made it work with him. If not for…you know…I could easily see myself happily married to him today. But know this, Arnold," her voice was now marked by a more solemn tone, "that you were my first choice and, present underlying circumstances notwithstanding, I'm glad to be together with you right now."

Arnold was at a loss, but eventually he found a sequence of coherent words: "Not that I'm not flattered but…yikes! Why tell me now?"

Phoebe moved to clarify: "Remember last night on the sidewalk with me saying I'd very much like to know you so much better? Well, please consider what I just told you an act of good faith on my part. I just shared a facet of my life with you that I would never have shared with even my best friend ever."

Arnold mulled over what he had just heard before answering: "Did I ever tell you that I was born in the middle of a volcanic eruption..?"

And suddenly the journey didn't seem long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: For the Brainy/Vasquez meeting I benchmarked the scene in Heat where Robert de Niro and Al Pacino meet up in the diner. I hoping to convey a mutual understanding, if not outright respect for each other. Also for each character to lay their cards on the table and proclaim that neither would budge from their position.
> 
> Author's Note #2: You've probably guessed that Vasquez was the star of this chapter. Hopefully, I've established his credentials and abilities as a detective, and also that he'll make a formidable foe for Arnold.
> 
> Author's Note #3: My Spotify playlist for this chapter [or: the songs that most influenced my writing this chapter]:  
I'd Like - Freshlyground  
Waiting in Vain - Annie Lennox  
The Crossroads - Bone Thugs 'n Harmony  
Pilgrim - Eric Clapton  
The Experience of Love - Eric Serra


	10. How Do We Eat An Elephant?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Arnold and Phoebe head back to Hillwood to take the fight with Scheck away from Arnie, Hilda, and their town. Vasquez figures out Brainy's motivations and tracks him down, only to find that his quarry has anticipated their meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

Detective Mark Vasquez was miffed. He'd thought he had a line on Brainy. He thought he'd had a chance to cut off Phoebe's and Arnold's primary source of intel. But Brainy was just too good at covering his ass. Plus he'd placed the detective in a very precarious situation: going after the spook would expose some of the detective's dirty laundry, making him a liability to Scheck, a man who wouldn't waste a second in cutting him permanently loose.

To hell then with Brainy; he'd have to go after Shortman directly. But how? Obviously, Helga would be the key. Obviously, her memories were still haunting him. Maybe…what were the chances that Shortman knew that Helga was a certified loon? Maybe he could use that info to rile him into a mistake.

Shortly after decking the untouchable Brainy, Detective Mark Vasquez had contacted Scheck to run that possibility by the old man, only to be informed that FTI's security team was tracking the reporter's cellular phone which had recently come back online. The signal was traced somewhere approaching Bismarck, North Dakota. The eggheads concluded that the reporter and the soldier were trying to escape FTI's clutches by heading east. They even recommended that a team could be dispatched to St Paul, Minnesota to head the couple off. Vasquez had disagreed, contending that neither Shortman nor Heyerdahl came across as ones to run away from confrontation, that most likely the phone had gone quiet because Phoebe was on to their tracking methods, that most likely she had ditched the phone and was on her way back to Hillwood.

"You raise a good point," Scheck had conceded. "That boy was never afraid to confront me. Your assertion makes sense. Now tell me: if you're certain that he's returning to Hillwood, do you have any suggestions on how to deal with him when he gets here?"

Vasquez's answer was for them to stake out the cemetery, particularly the grave of Helga Pataki. Have a hit team ready to strike at a moment's notice. "Ex-military please, not street muscle. Shortman would take those guys apart," he'd insisted, and the old man had agreed: so ordered. The intercept mission was summarily abandoned, and the hit team diverted to staking out the cemetery.

Which now left him without contact details for Phoebe. Which meant he'd need to get to Shortman directly. So far he was able to obtain Shortman's details from the DMV. Now he was back at his desk at the station, reaching out to his contacts within numerous insurance carriers, asking if anyone had an Arnold Phillip Shortman as a client. One contact returned with news to the affirmative: Shortman, Arnold Phillip; Current address (_"Not important."_); Vehicle, 2007 Golf GTI (_"Could be useful"_); Licence Plate number (_"Ditto."_). And ("Y_es!"_), contact cellular number! He'd definitely be needing that.

Next on the agenda was a call to a colleague in Traffic: BOLO on Red 2007 Golf GTI, license plate blah blah blah. Call him on first sighting. The detective wasn't sure how useful any of the information would end up being but hey, _Be Prepared,_ according to the Boy Scouts motto. 

* * *

"Anybody tell you? You've got a really nice tush!"

Even as an apparition within his dreams, Helga was capable of making Arnold blush. And she persisted: "Remember the synchronized swimming? Those skimpy briefs? _YOWZA!_ Even Phoebe was impressed! Speaking of which…how was she? On second thought, don't answer! Sex isn't that high a priority when you're dead, amirite?"

Again Helga and Arnold were seated at the San Lorenzo terminal as their adolescent selves. Each one wore their familiar childhood garb: Helga in her pink dress and ribbon; Arnold in his jeans, hanging shirt and complimentary top and jacket.

Then Helga, as she was wont to do constantly in his dreams, changed the subject once again: "So you're really bent on going after Scheck?"

"Don't have much of a choice," he answered. "Either I get him, or he gets me."

At that, Helga's expression changed from playful brashness to one of genuine worry. "Arnold, listen to me," she said as she placed a concerned hand on his shoulder. "You may think you need to do this to earn my forgiveness, but there was nothing you could have done for me. Please don't throw away your life. Not even I am worth it."

Arnold attempted an answer, only to have the dream start imploding. Suddenly his vision was a swirling loss of focus and perspective. Only Helga at the center of all the swirling maintained pristine visual clarity. Arnold, amid all the tumult, answered. No words were coming from his mouth. He tried again, more loudly. Nothing.

Louder.

Louder still.

Finally, in frustration, he bellowed: "You're wrong!"

That last shout startled him back to consciousness and suddenly he was back in his car, albeit on the passenger seat with Phoebe driving. This arrangement was another triumph of Phoebe's indisputable logic, aided perhaps by a little pouting. At their last gas stop, she had expressed a desire to try out the hot hatch for herself. Before Arnold could protest, he was reminded how (A) both occupants had participated in a Grand Prix, (B) one of the occupants took the chequered flag and (C) Arnold was not that occupant.

Arnold was surprised at Phoebe's heavy right foot and impressed by her mechanical sympathy with the car as she guided it through the dips, blind crests and switchbacks that marked the backroads to Hillwood. _What a woman_, he'd thought more than once, even if he did occasionally have to reign in her vigor lest they'd attract unnecessary attention from law enforcement.

"And what am I wrong about?" asked Phoebe while maintaining full concentration on the road.

"No, not you!" Arnold reassured her. "Just…a dream spilling into reality."

"If you say so, Arnold," said Phoebe in acceptance of his answer. "Enjoy your nap, by the way? Is my driving that boring to you?"

"Sorry, I must have zoned out for a bit."

"See?" proclaimed Phoebe as though she had scored a major victory. "I told you I wasn't a bad driver! I even made you nod off!"

Arnold wanted to counter with how he considered any trip relaxing whenever there was no possibility of IED's or enemy ambushes. He decided to forgo the pettiness and let her have her glory. Besides, there were more pressing matters to address. Phoebe beat him to that particular punch.

"So, what's the plan? When we get back to Hillwood."

"Do unto Scheck before he does unto us."

"Yes, Arnold. But how? Any ideas with more substance?"

"Well…we do still have Brainy's flash drive," Arnold offered. "Can't you put out a story based on what you learned from it?"

"With uncorroborated information? No way!" Phoebe countered. "Scheck's legal and PR teams would tear me to shreds, the story will lose all credibility and we'll lose the only chip we have to play." This she said while maintaining perfect concentration on the road ahead.

"What about the FBI?"

"What _about_ them?" Phoebe retorted, more sharply than she intended.

"Can't you just send a copy of the data on the flash drive to them?" Arnold kept offering.

"Arnold, we've established that Scheck has several powerful public figures at his disposal. The Hillwood PD Commissioner, the Chief of Detectives…Mark," the acrimony was plain in her voice at the mention of that last name. "To say nothing of the local politicians, the governor and a senator under his payroll. You think, assuming – _assuming_ – that we can find an honest FBI agent, that he'd want to proceed with such a politically charged matter? And even if he were to proceed, Scheck would just use his clout to get the agent fired."

"Wow, Phoebe," Arnold was profoundly taken aback by Phoebe's sudden onset of pessimism.

That much Phoebe had read in his tone. "I'm merely being pragmatic," she offered as an explanation. "My previous exposés dealt with a county sheriff and then a mid-level city official. Those were hard enough targets, well connected, resourceful and certainly dangerous. But…_this_…don't you think we've bitten off too much?"

"Maybe," conceded Arnold, "but considering what Scheck and FTI did to us, our families, our friends…our community…we can't sit idly by and let him win."

"But _how_, Arnold?"

"I still think the flash drive is our key in succeeding."

"Have you been listening? The information is interesting and definitely incriminating, but easily deflectable."

"You're thinking in terms of truth and justice. Look, I've had a long time to realize that those concepts don't always prevail. The bad guys don't always get caught. And if they do get caught, it doesn't usually amount to much. We can do this, we can take him down, but we'll have to go about it differently. You may even have to forgo your journalistic integrity."

Phoebe's eyes widened briefly at that last statement's implications. "Arnold," she stated in a voice unable to decide between resolve and apprehension, "I'm not saying we mustn't proceed. Scheck must go down. FTI must go down. But I absolutely will not be forced into committing any crimes myself to obtain that goal!"

"And I'm not asking you to do so! But you may have to forget about any Pulitzers. This is a story that probably will never see the light of day. Do you think you can live with that?"

Phoebe was still focussing ahead as she replied: "This was never about the awards. It was about finding the truth."

"So you're in?"

"It depends. What do you have in mind?"

"That's where you can help. I'm guessing that you are familiar with the current Hillwood underworld."

"Yes..?" Phoebe was intrigued: where was he going with this?

"Well, who do you think stands to gain the most if Scheck were to be taken out of the picture?"

Phoebe processed Arnold's words for a while, and finally, her face contorted into a devilish grin. "Arnold. When we get to Hillwood, allow me to take you out and treat you to possibly the worst meal in the entire city." 

* * *

"**_Funny you should mention mental asylums, Detective. Wasn't your wife once a guest at one such facility?"_**

Pause. The video frame showed the detective clearly agitated by the statement. Perhaps a competent investigator would draw the same conclusion.

Play.

"**_How'd you find out about that?"_**

Pause. And even if the investigator doubted Brainy's allegation, there was the detective confirming the allegations in his response. Hmm, maybe he _could_ spin this to make it look like the detective was exploiting his wife's fragile disposition.

Fast forward. Play.

"**_From what I gather, you've been sitting on intel for god knows how long that could bring down my employers."_**

Pause. Was what the detective just said enough to incriminate himself? At least, maybe it would be enough for IAB to deepen their hooks into him.

Rewind. Play.

"…**_bring down my employers."_** That was 'employers', _plural_.

Fast forward. Play.

"**_Damn you! This was all part of your plan, wasn't it? To use him to bring down Santalov and now Scheck?"_** Cool, they'd infer that _these_ two were the employers, plural.

Fast forward.

"…**_bank statements of a certain Vitaly Santalov, highlighting specifically the settlement of student loan debt incurred by one Mark César Vasquez and all subsequent payments made to an offshore account opened up in the name of…who else?... Olga Pataki-Vasquez."_** This one was a gamble; he wasn't sure that they'd automatically assume that Olga was an unwilling accessory in this situation. Maybe a good defense lawyer could apply the necessary spin.

"**_Which, by the way, is cold, even for you: dragging your wife into your mess. Don't you think she's had enough drama in her lifetime?"_** No good, this one. Only an accusation from Brainy; no admission from the detective.

Fast forward.

"**You're lucky the old man only wants Arnold. You're lucky he doesn't consider you a threat. For now, at least."** Not specific enough. Could be any old man. Hillwood had its fair share of them.

All in all, the haul was a mixed bag, reckoned Brainy. At least he was happy that the hidden sound and video recorders inside the teddy bear at the cemetery had performed their tasks admirably. The little fuzzball was Brainy's unique design, with a camera and mic built into one paw each, each hooked up to a portable hard drive housed in its body. Its head flipped open to reveal a USB plug, hooked to the hard drive. Said plug was connected to his desktop PC, giving the impression of a suicidal stuffed animal sticking its head in an oven.

Regardless of the creature's will to live, it was providing the material that Brainy was analyzing, trying to sort the useful information from the frivolous. Olga Pataki-Vasquez was the current goal. Olga Pataki-Vasquez was part of this clusterfuck against her will and needed a swift extrication when things eventually went south. And Brainy felt they were about to go south, and soon, very soon.

Now he'd never known Olga socially, but she was Helga's sister and his quest to avenge Helga's death extended to preserving the wellbeing of any of her remaining family not named Robert. And damn if he wasn't going to do so for Olga.

Then he heard the knock at his door: his visitor had arrived.

"OK Brainy, how'd you do yourself in this time?" He'd opened the door to reveal his – badly, he'd claimed when he called her – cut cheek to his visitor. Sheena was not impressed. 

* * *

To the casual observers within the FTI building, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was merely negotiating improvements in FTI's security detail; apparently the rich and powerful could never have enough bodyguards. But what nobody outside Mister Scheck's spartan but still expensive office knew was that the meeting was taking place without his secretary – or any secretary for that matter – taking any minutes. No recordings were being made of this meeting, and no transcripts or appointment entries would ever hint towards it ever having taken place.

"The way I see it, Scheck, this may be a chance for us to finish the job," bellowed the blustery figure on one side of the desk. He looked as though sometime long ago he might have been a competent soldier, but years of administrative ennui had dulled his profile and competence significantly.

"But if I remember correctly, Charles, we…_you_…should have finished the job in Asmara two years ago," Scheck countered.

Two years prior, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck had been released from prison and was immediately bent on another crack at Arnold Shortman. With FTI's global resources he was able to establish that the young man had joined the Rangers and at the time was stationed in Asmara, Eritrea. Those same resources were able to obtain the personnel files of the commissioned officers stationed with Lieutenant Arnold Shortman. Furthermore, profilers and forensic behavioral consultants were hired to sift through the files, the pretext being that they were scouting for a candidate to join the FTI Board of Executives. Colonel Charles Rawlins was deemed the least worthy of the potential candidates: his file suggested a condescending attitude to the lower ranks that bordered on abject contempt, and also pointed out his eagerness to advance his own career on the backs of others' hard work was indicative of a sociopathic disposition. In other words, he was in it more for the paycheck and the retirement benefits than he was to 'Be All You Can Be'. Having made their recommendations, the experts were paid their fees and made to sign NDA's before being sent on their way with FTI's most profound thanks. An FTI HR rep then reached out to Colonel Charles Rawlins with their offer, hinting and intimating that the position was guaranteed if the Colonel were – _perhaps_ – to do a small, personal favor for the CEO.

"_What kind of favor_?" The Colonel's interest was piqued.

"_Well, one of the soldiers at the base framed our CEO and wrongfully got him sent to prison. If he could be dealt with appropriately, perhaps?"_

"_Tell me who he is and consider it done!"_

"_Lieutenant Arnold Shortman."_

Hence Colonel Rawlins feeding Unit 42 the bullshit intel on Khaled Aziz and Abdul Ahmed, effectively marching them into an ambush and a bloody annihilation. After all, what better way to disguise the murder of one soldier than to hide it in the decimation of an entire squad?

Only, it didn't work.

That fucking Shortman! He had to fight his way out of the ambush, rescue the entire squad and get to retire on a General's benefits. Meanwhile. Colonel Rawlins got found out and was shitcanned for his efforts.

Fearing the now ex-colonel's possible repercussions, FTI was forced to take him on board. He was appointed as an in-house consultant for FTI's Security, which suited him just fine as it meant he could do much less work – god bless delegation! – for a much higher salary than what Uncle Sam had been paying.

Any further attempts on the life of Arnold Shortman were subsequently put on indefinite hold, lest he would discover the true instigator. But now it seemed he was aware of at least some of Scheck's current involvement, if not all of it if the detective was to be believed.

Hence the renewed interest in liquidating Arnold Shortman.

Hence the current meeting.

"I'm telling you; Asmara was perfectly planned! We fed his squad the bad intel! We tipped off those two cells of where and when they'd arrive. We drew the biggest goddamn bullseyes on their fucking backs! Everything except blow up the sons of bitches ourselves!"

"And yet, Charles, here we are two years later," Scheck calmly countered. "I consider your attempts back then irrelevant. I'm more concerned about the amends you'll be making in the here and now."

"Excuse me?" Rawlins shot back with incredulity that suggested that _he_ was the higher ranking figure in the room.

"You heard correctly," Scheck's calm demeanor had not slipped in the slightest. "Understand that you've effectively been my guest for the past two years. Your position here is purely ceremonial, and until your obligation from Asmara is settled in full, so shall it remain."

"Now wait a goddamn minute! I- "

"_You_," Scheck cut him off with a mere adjustment to his tone, "will earn your keep within my organization."

Rawlins sat frozen, any thought of argument quashed and any delusion of backtalk summarily overruled. "Y-yes Sir. Understood," was his deflated response. He watched in stunned silence as Alphonse Scheck opened the desk drawer and took out from it a folder.

"Assets. Names. Base. Target. Killzone. All in here." Scheck outlined the contents with the same effortless specificity he'd use when ordering a bottle of wine in a restaurant, which made him all the more sinister as he was outlining the planned murder of another human being. "Meet them and await further instructions. Your target's ETA is within the next 48 hours. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir!" Rawlins acknowledged in a somewhat shaky voice, showing no trace of the self-assured blowhard who entered Scheck's office for this particular meeting, or for that matter who entered the employ of FTI those two years prior.

"Excellent," this in a calmer, more approving voice that put Rawlins somewhere close to back at ease. Until: "And Rawlins, address me as 'Sir' from now on. Thank you and goodbye."

That was it: end of discussion. No more input from him to be entertained. With folder in hand, a dejected Charles Rawlins made his way to the door. 

* * *

"Hold still!" she ordered. "Oh come on, stop squirming! This isn't the first time you've needed to be stitched up!"

"Doesn't mean I like it!"

"Whoever did this to you must have been a boxer! He cut your cheek badly, even inside your mouth!" She'd already attended to the internal cut. "Ever thought of changing to a safer job? Like 'Lion Tamer'? 'Crash Test Dummy'?" she asked.

"Maybe. I'm almost done with this case anyway."

Sheena and Brainy were seated across from each other. Sheena had disinfected his cut cheek and was currently stitching it up, a process that Brainy had come to accept as a necessary evil in his…could he even call this his profession? Whatever it was, its associated duties were performed in a legal grey area and as such he didn't exactly have his choice of quality medical care. That's where Sheena, a paramedic by trade, fit in.

The woman opposite him had retained her lanky frame and her triangular facial structure from P.S. 118, but her jaded eyes told of innocence lost irrevocably. She and much of P.S. 118 were left reeling after the death of her colleagues. Sheena had chosen to internalize her grief over the matter, while everyone else was expressing anger due to their helplessness: for which they needed an outlet. At first, Arnold was the intended outlet but when word had reached them about Arnold's relocation to San Lorenzo, they extended the grid to those who would defend Arnold Shortman for the incident. Phoebe Heyerdahl, who was constantly speaking in his defense, felt the brunt of their wrath: bullying; cyberbullying; death threats; constant harassment. Eventually, it became too much for not just Phoebe but also her family, who packed up and left.

Sheena was never a confrontational person and could only watch helplessly as Phoebe's fate befell her. Sheena's own fate was isolation due to her pacifist nature. But fate was not done with her, as it led her to Brainy, who as the resident loner of P.S. 118 could empathize with her situation. Through opening up to one another, the two struck up a friendship that lasted until high school graduation.

Back in the here and now. "Why do you do this, Brainy? Risk your life to help people who don't even know that you exist," Sheena's voice expressed delicate concern.

"Like a wise man once said: 'Somebody has to'," Brainy replied.

"And when does it stop? I mean, aren't you tired of all the danger you put yourself in? And what if I'm not around to tend to you? What if I don't happen to be on my day off next time you're jammed up?"

To which Brainy had no answer.

To which Sheena had no follow-through. She didn't want to come down too hard on this man who had saved her professional life. It was a long time in the making, but it too started with the Sunset Arms incident. After the disaster, Sheena was polarized into wanting to become a paramedic. Her main motivation was wanting to do her part in avoiding the losses in life and of loved ones to which she was exposed. So after high school, it was two years for her at community college studying EMT-B, plus Advanced Training, plus certification exams.

Then came the actual job, and soon there was a problem. Six months after she began, several of her longer-serving colleagues came under investigation for stealing painkillers – Vicodin, OxyContin, Percocet, the good stuff – from their dispensary which they would sell in upper-middle-class suburbia at a decent mark-up that still undercut their products' insane retail prices. Their counter to the allegations was to pin everything on the newbie by planting evidence on her personal effects. And since she was soft-spoken and nonconfrontational, her defense amounted to "I didn't do it!", which was naively inadequate. Then one day an envelope containing an SD card showed up at her door, with a note stating that a copy had been sent to her bosses and that she needn't worry about her situation anymore.

What providence! The card contained video files of her co-workers raiding the dispensary and of their subsequent transactions in suburbia. One particular video showed a dealer boasting how they were pinning their whole operation on the newbie in the team. The ring was indicted for drug trafficking – for which they pleaded guilty – and Sheena was left wondering who her guardian angel was.

Her answer came a year or so later when she received a call from Brainy. He asked if she was available for an emergency procedure, as soon as possible and off the books. Her curiosity and sense of nostalgia overrode her common sense and she met up with Brainy at his residence to find him nursing a bullet wound.

In the present, Brainy eventually suggested an answer: "Please understand that what I'm working on is very important to me."

Sheena sighed in resignation as she completed the last of the sutures. "I know! You always say that!" Sheena said, perhaps knowing that Brainy's course was set in stone. "But I wish you'd be more careful."

"Would you miss me if I screwed up terminally?" for Sheena, he made a special point to curb his expletives. So strange: In the course of her work she'd routinely deal with GSW's, grievous bodily harm, third- and fourth-degree burns and the occasional missing limb with nary a complaint but swearing in her presence was strictly verboten.

"Not funny!" Sheena almost shouted. "I was scared out of my mind when I pulled that first bullet out of you. You could have died. Was the information worth confronting a jumpy crack addict to get it?" If he hadn't told her five years ago the nature of his 'profession' and that he was actually on the side of the good guys, or that it was he who exonerated her from her co-worker's opioid endeavors, she probably would have turned him over to the police after treating him.

But she didn't, and so a friendship was rekindled.

Brainy saw in her eyes and her frown that she was upset, probably at his blasé attitude towards death and his mortality. In recompense, he reached to her and guided her head to his so that their foreheads were touching. "Don't ever think I'll be ungrateful to you," he started. "You're a good person. You have a good heart and I envy you for being able to stay positive through almost anything."

That got a pause from her. Then a smile. Then a peck on this right cheek, his good cheek.

"Thanks, Brainy," she said softly as she pulled away to gather her instruments. She was halted by his hand on hers.

"Listen, I want you to know that I trust you with my life," Brainy announced, "so I'd like to tell you my real name."

She was agog as he shared this piece of information with her. 

* * *

The journey lasted about seven hours, but Arnold and Phoebe eventually arrived back in Hillwood. Foutley last checked in to inform the duo that Phoebe's old phone was now approaching Fargo and that their adversaries hadn't yet made any moves in any of the areas the signal had passed, but no news was not to be interpreted as good news.

Not one to lower their guard, Arnold insisted that Phoebe stick to the backroads and avoid any major intersections en route to her rented home. Eventually, the destination came into view, only Arnold insisted that she keep driving until about one hundred yards past the house before making her stop.

"Your housekeys, please," he said in a voice and with a steely-eyed gaze that together made his combat preparedness apparent.

Phoebe was uncertain, but she did as told.

"Which one's for the backdoor?" he asked, and she pointed out the correct one.

"Security code?" She told him, followed by: "Arnold, this is becoming unsettling! Is something amiss?"

"I'll know in ten minutes. Keep circling the block until I call in. You hear nothing from me after ten minutes, drive like hell and don't look back."

He then saw the worry in her eyes before softening his gaze towards her and adding: "Don't worry, Phoebe. I'll be careful." He capped off his words with a warm kiss on her cheek before alighting. "Now go!"

Phoebe followed her instructions: she circled slowly around the block. Once. Twice. By the third pass, he hadn't yet checked in. On the fourth lap, the panic was encroaching on her theretofore calm demeanor. On the fifth lap, the panic was spreading. Then on the sixth lap, her ringing phone started her out of her panicked state. It was Arnold: "All clear. Bring it in."

She completed her lap to the house and parked the Golf in the driveway where Arnold stood waiting. She got out of the vehicle to join him.

"What was that all about?" she asked him in annoyance.

"Precaution. Checking for anything unusual," he answered with unapologetic professionalism.

"Unusual? Unusual like how?" Annoyance and confusion in Phoebe's voice.

"Surveillance devices. Hidden cameras, sound recorders," he reported. "Booby traps, explosives, that sort of stuff." Then, seeing how she was grasping the seriousness of the situation: "Don't worry, the place is clean. I did two sweeps just to be sure."

"You dummy! You could have told me what you were going to do instead of leaving me in the car worrying myself sick!"

A nonplussed Arnold replied: "Listen. As long as we're together, your safety is my number one priority."

"No, _you_ listen! You're not playing the tragic, self-sacrificing hero as long as we're together!" Phoebe's anger and determination could be downright scary when she dialed them all the way up. "Like it or not, it's just as important to me that _you_ survive our ordeal!"

That utterance caught him off-guard, but he recovered quickly enough: "Hey, I don't intend to wear any halos or horns anytime soon." Arnold reached for Phoebe's hands with his. "But maybe I should rephrase my previous statement, hmm?"

"Proceed." Phoebe's voice sounded strict, but in reality, she was motioning to interlock her fingers with his, a gesture which he wholeheartedly accepted.

"Your safety is still my number one priority," Arnold reiterated, "because you as a person are my number one priority. You're smart, you're intelligent, you're sexy as hell and I just enjoy being with you. You're not someone I'd want to risk losing."

Phoebe felt her eyes fluttering, but she too caught herself: "Nice try, Mister! Nothing like laying it on real thick! Having said that…" She then brought her lips to his for a kiss of brief passion and tenderness, "do keep trying. You certainly know how to make a lady feel appreciated. And please, _please_. No unnecessary risks."

She was smiling again, which Arnold read as a good sign. "I'm glad we settled that. Now, how about we unload our stuff?"

"Unloading!" Phoebe replied in her irresistibly playful tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's your lot this chapter. As always, you have my eternal gratitude for sticking with me for this story. As always, I am motivated by your willingness to see this story all the way to the end. You are the reason for me putting in the effort that I do in each chapter.
> 
> Author's Note: I'm having fun with Scheck. Prison has made him even more ruthless but also that more sophisticated. So I've imagined an older version of him speaking in a voice that's a cross between Paul Sorvino, Tony Jay, and Gordon Heath.
> 
> Author's Note #2: Another goal for this chapter was to expand Brainy's character and to offer a glimpse of how he obtains his intel. It's important that he not be a mere Deus ex Machina. I also wanted to bring in not necessarily a romantic interest for him, but someone who would be saddened if any tragedy were to befall him.
> 
> Author's Note #3: It may be time for a re-read of Chapter 3 to reacquaint yourself with the Rawlins character. You probably thought that he'd be a throwaway background character back then. Just saying...
> 
> Author's Note #4: I promise you that I am a confirmed Shortaki proponent for life, but damn me to hell if I'm not having fun with Arnold and Phoebe and their scenes!. Again, just saying...
> 
> Author's Note #5: So what songs on Spotify inspired this chapter, I strain to hear you ask?  
Something That You Said - The Bangles  
Blue Eyes - Springbok Nude Girls  
Army - Ellie Goulding  
My Hometown - Bruce Springsteen  
Changes - 2Pac


	11. My Enemy's Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Vasquez zeroes in on Arnold. Phoebe and Arnold strategize for the path forward. Brainy sifts through intel and then receives medical treatment from someone who may consider him more than a patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

The single-storeyed house was located in a middle-class suburb of Hillwood with aspirations of affluence. The plot was sizeable, the house relatively well-equipped and well-furnished. Among the amenities was a garage, an unused one at that since Phoebe made use of ridesharing services as her main form of transportation. It became the home of Arnold's Golf, hidden from would-be prying eyes on the sidewalk. Arnold and Phoebe had wasted little time offloading their luggage from the vehicle and settling in.

It was now about four o'clock. Arnold was in the lounge, sprawled across the couch, happy to be in such a position after a seven-hour drive. The lounge contained the couch as well as a large coffee table on which rested an assortment of legal briefs, sundry reports and a selection of crime scene photos. The latter immediately grabbed his attention. Arnold picked them up a discovered them to be crime scene photos highlighting the devastation of the Sunset Arms explosion in cold, unfeeling detail.

Seeing the photos…being reminded of his helplessness in the situation…remembering how he heard his loved ones slip away…

He felt an onset of nausea. He felt his chest tightening, his airways constricting. His breathing, reduced to loud, ragged gasps. His vision suddenly streaked by welling tears.

A voice entering the room. "Arnold? _Arnold!_ Oh my god, are you OK?" Phoebe's voice. Phoebe's voice, approaching at an urgent pace. "Arnold! Arnold!"

His eyes opening, a blurry Phoebe in front of him. Her hands on his shoulders, her voice pleading for his acknowledgment. His acknowledgment? Wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his head against her chest. "It's OK, Arnold, it's OK." Her soothing voice as she held his head tighter against her chest.

His tears, ebbing. His breathing, normalizing. Nausea, subsiding.

A few seconds. A few minutes? Hours? Resting against Phoebe. Pressing against her. Her presence, her touch, calming him.

Until…

He pulled his head away from her chest and meekly apologized: "Sorry, Phoebe. Sorry for going off like that. I saw the photos on the coffee table…I…I was back at The Sunset Arms…I remembered how helpless I felt…It just…It just all came back and…and I don't know…I was suddenly overwhelmed."

"Shh, Arnold, hush now," Phoebe cradled his head back against her chest, maternally stroking his hair, her voice a soothing presence. "It was my carelessness in leaving the photographs out in the open. I should have remembered that you lost your loved ones while I," she hesitated for a bit, "…did not. Sorry about that."

"I thought I had it under control, Phoebe. I truly thought I did. But every so often…the memories creep up and…_this_ happens."

"Just let it out, Arnold. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all" reassured Phoebe. At that moment, she recalled Hilda's word's from the interview room.

"…**_and take good care of him. He'll be needing you as much, if not more than you'll be needing him._**"

It made sense: Arnold was still searching for closure following the tragedies and needed support and understanding from someone who could empathize with him. Circumstances had made Phoebe that someone. Did she mind? On reflection, not one bit.

She released Arnold back onto the couch. "Just sit down and take a moment. I'll make you some green tea. It ought to help calm you down."

Off she went, leaving Arnold taking deep, slow breaths as he tried to maintain his reclaimed calm. As much as he was struggling with the memories, he had to have another look at the photos.

He grabbed them in another attempt. So far, so good: no sudden flashbacks. One by one he scanned, scoured and analyzed. The pictures depicted the remains of the Sunset Arms basement with cones and markers highlighting the bits considered of special interest to the investigators. Everything on the picture that was marked supported the official story of the gas main rupturing and ultimately causing the devastation.

Two explosions. Only, he wasn't sure of that.

"Phoebe?" he called out.

From the kitchen: "Yes?"

"Are you still looking into how the explosion was caused?"

"Yes, I am! I just don't agree with the final report. They said two explosions, I _know_ I heard three! Hence those photographs."

"Phoebe, what if I told you I believe you? What if I told you I also heard three?"

Phoebe peered into the lounge; her bespectacled eyes lit up with curiosity. "I'd breathe a sigh of relief knowing that I'm not yet totally crazy."

"I've had a look at those pictures," He then saw her curiosity change to worry, no doubt over him having another spell. "Don't worry, I'm fine!" he reassured to her slight relief. "What if I told you I know what caused the first explosion?"

Before Arnold had time to register any movement by her, Phoebe was sitting next to him on the couch. "I'd say that the tea can wait a while longer." 

* * *

How did it come to this? Twenty minutes prior, Brainy had revealed his name to Sheena. Now, they were seated on a bench in Tina Park, eating ice cream. Actually, Brainy was the one eating ice cream; Sheena was enjoying a vegan-friendly sorbet.

Knowing Brainy's name was not enough for Sheena, so she had invited him to join her in the park. She reasoned that since she had already sacrificed a part of her day off for him, she might as well go all in.

Conversation comprised mostly shoptalk. Brainy detailed the ins and outs of spotting and shaking off tails, as well as where all the surveillance camera blind spots in Hillwood were. Sheena, in turn, related the gory details of stabilizing victims struck by fast-moving vehicles, of how her first night on the job included seeing a gunshot victim's brains splattered across half of his kitchen floor, and of helping a pregnant woman give birth after her Kia Picanto came off second best against an eighteen-wheeler.

Brainy's responses surprised her, pleasantly so. Over the years, she had played the dating game with little to no success. The pattern was always the same. They'd hook up via Tinder and arrange the first date. Which often was also the last. The ones that didn't take issue with her veganism, were left too squeamish to finish their meal when she gave any gory details of her job. Brainy was different. Brainy took all of what she said in his stride with no ill effects.

"How do you do it, Brainy?" Even though she knew his name, she thought that 'Brainy' just sounded…cuter? "I've had dates bail on me for telling them not even a third of what I just told you. One guy even fainted at the table. Another one was so grossed out that he couldn't perform when we went over to his place."

"I think we've both seen the worst of what people can do to one another. We just got used to it, is all." To Sheena, Brainy's tone suggested that while he was the best in his field, deep down he wished that circumstances had not made him forge his current career path. But she chose not to pursue that conversation.

Instead: "So tell me this, Brainy. This business of yours, does it pay the bills?"

"Well, I happen to be on retainer with some clients. Law firms and private detectives mostly, all off the books. For the people I like and care about, it's pro bono."

"So does that mean…?" Sheena turned to look at Brainy. "Does that mean you like and care about me?" There were rays of hopefulness in her eyes.

"I haven't forgotten our friendship. Not ever," Brainy replied. "To me, you're a friend first, a paramedic second."

Only a friend? Well, she reckoned it was a starting point.

"A friend to whom I owe my very life and for whom I'd do anything," he continued. Silence descended over the bench as Sheena made sense of what she had just heard. "Anything?" she inquired.

"Anything," he answered.

"Like this?" she pressed her luck further as she shifted towards him and squeezed against his flank and rested her head against his shoulder. To her surprise, he responded by leaning his head towards hers. And so in silence they remained.

Each one at ease with the other's presence.

Their serenity was abruptly broken by Brainy's ringing phone. Sheena stared in its direction. Brainy stared in its direction. Sheena then looked at Brainy. Brainy then looked at Sheena.

"One more minute?" asked Sheena.

"One more minute," answered Brainy, letting the call go to voicemail. 

* * *

"And you're sure of this?" asked Phoebe.

"Absolutely, one hundred percent! In Baghdad, we'd use it on wrecked cars left out in the open. Bonus points if there was still gas in the tank."

"I take it there wasn't much to do on your off days?"

"Yep! We had to make our own entertainment."

"So…thermite you say?" While she was skeptic, Phoebe was nevertheless willing to hear Arnold out.

"Thermate. It's thermite cut with sulfur and barium nitrate," Arnold explained.

"Ah, so that it burns with an actual flame and is easier to ignite?" Phoebe filled in the blanks. "Makes sense, since thermite is not particularly incendiary."

"Exactly!" concurred Arnold, expecting nothing less from the brilliant mind of Phoebe Heyerdahl. "So get this: they find the underground gas main, they place the thermate in a flowerpot above it, then ignite it remotely."

"Hmm," Phoebe interjected, her interest piqued, "your hypothesis seems promising."

"We'll have to go back to that day," he said as he noticed an onset of discomfort within her while feeling no differently himself. "You're standing at the doorway, I'm a short way down the road."

She was doing her best to mask her uneasiness and it reflected in her reluctant answer: "Ooo-K?"

"Don't worry, I'm just as tense trying to relive that moment," Arnold comforted her, "but can you describe the first explosion that you heard?"

"Describe?"

"Yeah. Was it like...a pop? A bang? A boom?" Arnold maintained his line of questioning.

"Let me think. It was a…it was…more…like a…a fizzing sound. Yes! It sounded very effervescent. As if someone had set off a very loud, very big sparkler."

"Anything else?" Arnold's interrogation continued.

"Uh…let me think. A fizzing…then…then? Something similar to…to? A fizz and a…whoosh. Like something erupting!"

"_AHA_! That's what I heard too! OK, only that last part. The fizz and the whoosh, 'like something erupting'." Arnold partially confirmed her memory. "Sound familiar?"

Phoebe thought for a brief moment before the realization washed over her: "Like thermite igniting? Like thermite igniting, then combusting!"

"Thermate," Arnold repeated his prior correction. "But full marks regardless."

Inside Arnold was whooping up a storm at having figured out the seventeen-year-old mystery. A skeptical Phoebe tempered his enthusiasm: "Arnold, while I am deeply impressed by the conclusion you have reached, I fail to understand how you derived said conclusion from the crime scene pictures."

But Arnold's inner glee would not be dampened; he was ready for this question, or any variation thereof. "Here," he said as he handed her the damning picture. It showed debris strewn over a large surface area, surrounding what an annotation pointed out to be ground zero of the gas blast. Phoebe took what was shown at face value: "So? That tells nothing."

"Look closer," urged Arnold. "Here. Here. And here." He pointed out particular bits of metal in and amongst the concrete.

"That's not scrapped metal, is it?" Phoebe opined, before taking a closer look. "No, I don't see any jagged edges, so it can't be from the gas main. What you're showing looks more globular...like it cooled down and hardened from a molten state. Elemental iron?"

"Keep going," encouraged Arnold as he showed her another picture. More of the same, but this time she spotted what she was seeking: shards of a white, crystalline substance.

"Aluminum oxide!" she declared. "That and elemental iron? By-products of the thermite…_thermate_ reaction!" She didn't want another correction from Arnold.

"My guess is this. They use the thermate to burn through the top of the metal pipe and ignite the gas. But the concrete below stops it from burning all the way through."

Phoebe completed the conclusion: "So the molten iron and aluminum oxide solidify within the pipe and cause at least a partial blockage. Pressure builds up until, kaboom. World's biggest pipe bomb."

Arnold went on to explain how the thermate could have been lit most efficiently ("_Silicone micro fuse would be my guess._") and detonated ("_Via radio or Wi-Fi through the circuit board._").

Both Phoebe and Arnold should have been glad at their achievement, but instead, a heavy pall of gloom had now descended over the room, rendering them silent. They had solved what the authorities didn't, but the reality remained that they were seventeen years too late: their friends and loved ones were still dead.

"Arnold, stay here," Phoebe's voice broke the funereal stillness. "There's something I must show you."

She stood up and left for another room, from where Arnold heard the sound of boxes being moved and papers being shuffled. Eventually, she returned, brandishing a sheet of paper which she handed over to him.

Her simple instruction: "Read this."

He did, and his eyes widened with his progress. Phoebe had given him the preliminary forensic report of the Sunset Arms Explosion. The one positing that three explosions had occurred. The one repudiated once the tech who had written it was smeared in the media and subsequently driven to suicide. Large portions of the report were redacted, deemed either incorrect or inadmissible. Arnold in his explanation to Phoebe had filled in the redacted blanks.

"They knew," he said in a soft tone that did nothing to hide his disbelief. "They fucking knew!" Louder, his disbelief turned to anger, threatening to boil over.

"Yes, Arnold. They knew," Phoebe's voice offered scant consolation. "They knew but they covered it up. And the one person who spoke the truth was made to pay the ultimate price. I don't believe for one moment that his suicide was voluntary. See why I was so skeptical in the car? We're dealing with an individual who could interfere with a high-profile investigation, plus arrange for the only person who can disprove him, to be permanently silenced. All of which he accomplishes _from his prison cell_. Imagine his capabilities as a free man! Even if we go public with what we've just now discovered, it will simply end up being buried as well."

Arnold seemed to have regained some resolve and composure as he maintained: "No! We can do this! I just need to know who the number two criminal figure in Hillwood is. You know, the person who'll gain the most once Scheck is taken out of the picture."

Rather enigmatically, Phoebe suggested: "Arnold, aren't you hungry? I think it's time I bought you that terrible meal I promised you in the car." With that said, she stood up to leave the room. "Just give me some time to change into something more suited for our purpose. I'd suggest you attire yourself similarly"

"Attiring!" Arnold mimicked Phoebe's little idiosyncrasy, right down to his take on her high pitch, in a sudden burst of joviality which caught her by surprise before eliciting a titter from her.

"Fuck you, Arnold Shortman! That's _my_ line!"

"Duly noted. Oh, and Phoebe? Can you make a copy of that flash drive? And put scans of the crime scene photos on it as well. The redacted report too." 

* * *

"Dude, what the fuck, man!" The voice on the other side sounded vexed but mostly confused. "Is this the real Brainy. You know, the guy who picks up the phone on the first ring? Why'd you go to voicemail, man?"

"Busy," answered Brainy tersely. "You got something for me?"

"Yeah, man. Remember asking me about looking out for that red Golf GTI. You're in luck. We got a hit on one of our cameras. Two passengers. One guy with this really wacky dome, and a smokin' hottie driving. I'm talking _ROWR_!"

What gave Brainy the edge over all other informants – his access to Smith's department notwithstanding – was also his access to various high-level investigative resources. He was speaking to one such resource: a contact within the Hillwood PD Traffic Department. He too had obtained Arnold's details via his own network of sources: a colleague at the DMV and an acquaintance at an insurance brokerage firm.

He knew Arnold's details, so he too had a way of knowing when Arnold would arrive in Hillwood. He was cursing his luck as he processed the news. His 'one more minute' with Sheena became ten before he very reluctantly had to leave and promise to another…date, was it? No, not now! No distractions! There was still work to be done.

"Dude, you still there?" the voice inquired. "You OK? You sound…I don't know…not all there, man."

Brainy quickly settled his thoughts. "I'm here. You have something else to say?"

"Yeah, man. Check it. I got a detective also asking about this car. Same model, same plates, same fucking driver. Only he wants this like hush-hush baby. Won't even tell me the crime he's investigating. I'm like, 'what's the guy committed, man' and he's like, 'None of your fucking business'."

Brainy's interest was stirred: "Named Vasquez, by any chance?"

"Yeah, yeah! Big shot detective. Total douchebag. Treats us techs like shit."

"Think you can delay giving him the info by three hours?"

"I don't know, man. This guy's got a major woody for this car. Been calling like every hour. Don't think I can get you more than two, _tops_."

"It'll do," Brainy responded. It would have to.

"Hey, man. About my fee for this info."

"Later. I'm in a hurry now," said Brainy before hanging up. Two hours..._tops_. He'd have to haul ass to make happen what he wanted to happen. He needed to retrieve the items from the safety deposit box and then…

He just hoped the detective could be stalled for as long as possible. 

* * *

Phoebe wasn't kidding: the food was terrible!

She and Arnold were dining at what purported to be a high-end Italian restaurant. So far the only thing high-end about it had been its prices. Otherwise, it was a matter of stale bread, wilted salads, overcooked pasta and sauces that could only have been made from a premix. Arnold was at least grateful that the medium-rare steak he ordered was served one notch below charcoal; he felt assured that any pathogens in the cow were long obliterated in the cooking process. Dessert fared no better with bland pannacotta and a semifreddo that had been frozen for a few months too long.

Truly, the one saving grace of this evening was Phoebe seated across from him. Or, to be more precise: a stunningly gorgeous Phoebe Heyerdahl dressed to kill in a form-fitting black evening dress. The dress's cut accentuated her body's sleek proportions, from her long, slender legs to her shapely, compact buttocks, all the way to her firm, perky breasts. The dress also sported a plunging V-cut behind which drew attention to her trim back in the same way the narrow straps highlighted the elegance of her shoulders and neck.

These thoughts had been first and foremost on his mind when Phoebe presented herself in her current ensemble an hour prior at the house. When she asked for his comments, what came from his mouth was a string of indecipherable garble.

She, in turn, had been impressed firstly by the suit he was wearing, secondly that he had had the foresight to pack a suit in the first place. His answer to her second point: "It's come in handy more often than you think."

Phoebe nevertheless complimented him on how his suit's "simple lines" and "not-too-relaxed cut" projected an air of "effortless, casual sophistication" which she found "wholly irresistible". If anything, she was more eloquent with her compliments than he had been with his.

Seated in the restaurant, Arnold found the sight of his companion a pleasing distraction from the meal. She did nothing to improve the food quality – nothing short of divine intervention would accomplish that – but she did make the experience that more palatable and for that, he was eternally grateful.

"You know, Arnold, you've been fixated on me throughout our courses," Phoebe pointed out. Then, as she gestured towards her dress: "This old dress? You've seen me wearing much less than this with no adverse effects on your speech patterns."

"Well, I've also seen my share of beautiful things that I never thought I'd live to see, and well, I've also been transfixed on them," Arnold rebutted.

"Oh my! And just when did you become such a smooth operator?" Phoebe was profoundly impressed by his comeback. "But I'm afraid you'll have to curtail the coquetry from this moment onward. Showtime approaches."

With that, she signaled the waiter for the check, which was dutifully delivered. And as she settled the bill, Phoebe set into motion their gambit. "May I state that our meal here was exemplary? We wish to meet with your manager and personally compliment him on this fine establishment."

The waiter eyed the couple warily as if his years of experience had already told him that this woman was either insane or a pathological liar. Still, he obliged and left the dining area. About three minutes later, Arnold and Phoebe were approached by a burly man in a navy blue pinstripe suit. The man must have stood 6"10", all of it solid muscle and short temper.

His gruff, unsophisticated voice confirmed Arnold's initial assessment. His vocabulary didn't. "Good evening. Are you the patrons who wish to converse with the manager?"

A stunned Arnold nodded. A stunned Phoebe nodded.

"Follow me, please."

He led them out of the dining area, up a flight of stairs into an antechamber hosting three armed guards. Once there, Arnold and Phoebe were roughly patted down, much to Phoebe's disapproval. Arnold was made to hand over his Glock and the couple had to surrender their phones. They were then ushered by the pinstriped giant through one of the other doors into an opulent office, the centerpiece of which was an expansive hardwood desk. Scattered throughout the office were three more armed bodyguards whose expressions challenged the couple to do or say something untoward.

Seated at the desk was the diminutive man whom Arnold and Phoebe had come to proffer: Big Gino.

According to what Phoebe had told Arnold, Big Gino was the number two crime boss in Hillwood. _Allegedly_, of course. The problem was that the gap between Number One and Number Two was a vast one; Big Gino's organization was less than ten percent the size of Santalov's before the latter's death.

As was the case with many long-time Hillwood residents, Gino's dilemma could also be traced to the Sunset Arms incident. At the time, Big Gino was being groomed by his father to take over the family business. However, almost immediately following the devastation, the neighborhood started being aggressively bought up cheaply and developed. Each gentrified block was a loss in power and influence for Gino's father, who eventually found himself at war with Vitaly Santalov. The final act of that war was a car bombing that rendered Gino an orphan without any of his father's key lieutenants.

Phoebe had furthermore detailed how Gino had been kept hidden from Santalov by a priest who was also a family friend. He grew up, effectively off the grid. His education was completed under various pseudonyms and at various institutions across the country, culminating in him earning a college degree in Business Management. Hillwood would forever remain in his blood, so he returned after college to build an organization for himself that would make his father proud. He started from the bottom with a motley band of street-level thugs. Eventually, he had a small local empire comprising head shops, junkyards, underground casinos, bookmaking joints, and restaurants.

The key point Arnold had to remember, however, was that Big Gino was eager to capitalize on the void left behind by Santalov's demise since he wrongly believed that Santalov's organization was dead too.

"Arnold!" Big Gino initiated the conversation. "Arnold fucking Shortman, as I live and breathe! What brings the boy scout back to Hillwood? And wow, is that the genius Asian chick from P.S. 118? Look how hot she's become!"

"Hello, Gino," Arnold acknowledged. Phoebe nodded, coldly.

"So…you two wanna shoot the breeze? Talk about old times?"

"How about the way forward for you?" Phoebe chimed in.

"A business proposition then," remarked Gino, his business acumen stimulated. "And what benefits do you propose bringing my way, Miss High-Profile Crime Reporter?" Phoebe flinched briefly as he revealed his knowledge of her profession. "You thought my men weren't on to you the moment you entered the restaurant? They told me not to see you. But you know what? You bought the boy scout with you, and I'm kinda sentimental over old times. Now say your say and I might hear you out," he concluded to Phoebe's relief.

Arnold then seized his opportunity. "We hear you were making some plans now that Vitaly Santalov is dead. You know, like buy out his businesses and move back in on his territories."

Gino feigned ignorance. "Santalov? Never heard of him."

"Cut the bullshit, Gino!" snapped Arnold. Gino's bodyguards went for their holsters, only for him to motion for them to stop.

"Easy, boys," Gino commanded. "It's nice to sometimes have someone who isn't an ass-kisser like you guys." Then to Arnold: "Yes, Boy Scout, Santalov's officially a stiff, so I'm calling early dibs on his properties."

Phoebe: "We wouldn't advise it. At least not yet."

Arnold stepped in again, not wanting to give Gino a chance to speak. "Your problems aren't over yet. Santalov's organization isn't dead. Just under new management."

Phoebe again: "New management as in 'Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck'."

Big Gino's interest was piqued to the point of discomposure. "Scheck? That greasy Wall Street fuck who wanted to destroy the neighborhood? I thought he was now a legit businessman!"

Arnold and Phoebe spent the next ten minutes telling of Scheck's clandestine involvement, from the bombing to bankrolling Santalov to ultimately gaining control of Santalov's organization.

When they were done, Big Gino ruminated on their words. "So, if I get this right, Scheck has now become the boss of bosses? _Plus_, he's bent on getting revenge on the only remaining person to ever kick his ass?"

"That's the gist of it," Phoebe confirmed.

"I still don't see why I should get involved. If he's as dangerous as you say, why should I go down for your fight?" Understandably, Gino was playing his cards cautiously.

"Because," countered Arnold as he reached very slowly and very cautiously into his jacket's inner pocket and produced a flash drive, "I have lists here of all the people that Scheck has in his pocket. Politicians and high-ranking city officials that make your guys look like chicken shit. Also, evidence that the Sunset Arms wasn't an accident. Play your cards right, and they could be in your pocket for absolutely nothing."

Gino was again in deep thought, until: "And how do I know that if I lean on them, they won't tell me to go fuck myself?"

The next voice was from the 6'10" man-mountain who had escorted Arnold and Phoebe to Big Gino: "Well, Sir, the bombing can be considered an act of domestic terrorism, so Mister Scheck had in effect been funding a terrorist organization. Under the Patriot Act, he could get a maximum penalty of life imprisonment as well as the forfeiture of all his properties purchased since then which would under the circumstances be considered the proceeds of crime. If we can perhaps convince the people he owns that they've colluded in an act of terrorism, we can undermine his entire operation to obtain his assets at a heavy discount. And if this gentleman," he pointed to Arnold, "were to take Scheck permanently out of the picture, we could use our inside knowledge to fast-track our acquisitions."

Arnold and Phoebe were stunned at what the beast had just said. Gino wasn't. Instead, he chided the man: "Shit, Myron, don't you ever shut up?" He then turned to the duo: "Sorry, but that's what happens when you pick a bodyguard that's also a law graduate."

Arnold and Phoebe chose to mask their incredulity at that revelation.

Big Gino broke the silence. "We'll get to work and if it pans out, you've got our support. If not…" He left that last sentence unfinished as he motioned to Myron. "But you know what? You showed me some good faith; I'll show you some of my own."

With that, he scrawled a note on a piece of paper and gave it to Myron, who brought it over to Arnold. It was a name and an address.

"You say Scheck wants you dead. Sounds like you need some protection. Go to that man any time, day and night. Tell him Big Gino sent you; he'll help you out." Then to Myron: "Myron, escort our guests out and comp them for their meal."

At the door, Arnold turned back to Gino: "You know, Gino? You were a piece of shit back then and you're still a piece of shit now. But if there's going to be a crime boss for Hillwood, I'd rather it was you."

And out he walked.

Phoebe looked back at Gino and simply said: "Same."

Then she followed Arnold on the way out. 

* * *

Detective Mark Vasquez was agitated.

His contact at Traffic only came through at seven o'clock in the evening. Match on a red 2007 VW Golf GTI, correct license plate number, two occupants. Shit, so Shortman was in Hillwood. And he was with Phoebe! Which meant she'd want them to go straight to work with whatever plan they'd have concocted.

Which meant _he_ had to get to work; the longer he delayed, the more likely that Shortman could become wise to Scheck's plans. Brainy would also be trying to get hold of Shortman. If he hadn't succeeded already.

Somehow he'd have to think of a way to circumvent Phoebe's influence on Arnold, and also Brainy's input to him. He'd have to attack the heart of Arnold Shortman instead of the mind.

Detective Mark Vasquez found himself as the de facto coordinator of the Arnold Shortman task force appointed by Scheck. Only fair, given that the detective was a key factor in their appointment. As such, he was given direct access to their team leader: some ex-Army colonel named Rawlins.

So he called the man, informing him that Shortman had arrived in Hillwood. Rawlins' answer amounted to _so fucking what_?

"So I want to fucking help you guys even the odds against Shortman."

"How? We already have state-of-the-art weaponry. We got the cemetery under lockdown. He sets foot in it and he's dead."

"And how do you know he's going to visit the cemetery as soon as he gets here?" Detective Mark Vasquez heard the smugness drain from Rawlins from the other side. "You don't, do you? I can deliver him to the kill zone, fucking gift-wrapped. Here's what you need to do."

And he explained, much to Charles Rawlins' consternation: "And just where am I supposed to get one of _those_ at this time."

"I don't care! Just do it. And remember to send me the pictures once you're done."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I got the idea for thermite from reading about how the substance is used to weld together railway joints. I'm fully aware that I might have not quite gotten it right, in which case I invoke the principle of Cartoon Chemistry and also the Spirit of MacGyver (The Richard Dean Anderson version, thank you very much).
> 
> Author's Note #2: I nevertheless feel compelled to mention that I in no way endorse or approve the use of thermite in anything other than its intended applications. Stay safe, kids.
> 
> Auditor's Note #3: I was struggling to find a reference on which I could base my description of Phoebe's evening dress when one fell into my lap. It was from the 05/26 edition of Nick and Zuzu, a satirical comic by Nick Galifianakis (recommended if you like your humor tinder dry). Said edition features a woman in a black evening dress that made me think: "That's how I'd imagine Phoebe!". Arnold in his suit was simpler; I simply remembered him in 'April Fool's Day'.
> 
> Auditor's Note #4: The songs on Spotify that most influenced my writing this chapter:  
I'll Remember - Madonna  
Wanted Dead Or Alive - Bon Jovi  
Broken Silence - Foxy Brown  
Up on the Hill - Fun Lovin' Criminals  
Take a Picture - Filter


	12. It's That Pivotal Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICMY: Arnold and Phoebe pinpoint the third explosion before staking the only card they have to play against Scheck. Brainy realizes he's now in a race against Vasquez to get to Arnold and Phoebe first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

"Arnold, you were brilliant! We have our feet in the door! Hopefully, Big Gino will be able to turn at least some of those officials away from Scheck and complicate his operations!"

Phoebe was unusually ebullient and even in high heels, she had an optimistic bounce in her step as the pair made their way back to the house. Why wouldn't she? They had just confronted Big Gino – while unarmed and facing several armed bodyguards – and now their fight against Scheck had gained some much-needed traction.

Arnold was more subdued over this, their most recent achievement. "It's a good start," he modestly said, "but there's still work to be done."

Phoebe's vivacity quickly deflated into a sulk. "Arnold, can't you just for this moment show some enthusiasm for this small milestone?"

Arnold looked at her and mustered a deadpan "Yay".

"Arnold, you confuse me sometimes! We just now walked – unarmed! – into a room of armed criminal figures who prior to our meeting saw no reason to let us leave alive. Look at me now! Brimming with nervous energy, elated to still be alive! And you're acting like it's just another day in the office!"

"You don't know the half of it," Arnold answered, still in monotone deadpan. "One day I'll tell you some of my stories from Iraq and Eritrea. Hell, some of my bounty hunting meetings make what we went through look like Sunday School."

But Phoebe was resolute. "Well, it might be true, Arnold. But remember that one of us has not had the luxury of stepping into life-or-death situations as a matter of routine! I'm still new to your world and…_HEY_!"

She had to stifle a shriek as she felt Arnold veer sharply into an alley, pulling her along with him, bringing her tightly against his body before backing her quickly yet gently against one of the walls. "Arnold!" a confused Phoebe castigated. "What's possessed you all of a sudden?"

Arnold motioned urgently but gently to her for her silence. He then moved his head closer to her and whispered: "Listen. I'm going to kiss you now. Can't explain now; please go along."

"Arno- "

She couldn't even get the first word out because by then his lips were on hers. Her initial moans of confusion quickly became ones of sensual ecstasy. Her ecstasy was aided by her aforementioned nervous energy, which had also heightened her senses. His lips felt more tender; his taste so much sweeter. Her goosebumps felt noticeably rougher; in fact, her whole body from head to toe was a much better conductor of the electricity that was freely coursing throughout her frame. His scent, his warm breath against her, pricklier: it was too much as she gave in and returned his kiss with equal vigor. She found herself fumbling around for his head, his neck, his shoulders: anywhere her hands could find solid purchase.

She almost – _almost_ – didn't notice that he was maneuvering them further and further down the alley. And when they rounded a corner, out of view from the sidewalk, her sensory stimulation was at odds with the klaxons screaming in her head, warning her of imminent danger and improper advances. She broke their kiss long enough to stare at him through her now fogged up glass lenses for a most indignant query: "No, wait, Arnold! What's the meaning of this?" She kept her voice low as she was still giving him the benefit of the doubt. One wrong answer, however, and she'd shriek to her lungs' full capacity to alert everyone within a hundred yards to her situation.

Arnold moved back closer to her and whispered exigently in her ear: "We're being followed. I need a distraction to get you to safety."

"Huh?" She was dumbstruck, but before she knew it, he was back to kissing her. Between his smacking lips and his delicate nibbles, he continued whispering. "Phoebe, please! I need whoever's following us to be fully distracted. Please, sell it!"

Phoebe at that point realized that even though she and Arnold had been reacquainted for a little over two days, she had come to trust him enough to know that if he said there was an imminent danger, then danger was indeed imminent. She gave in to the waves of exhilaration washing over her and resumed kissing him. She thrust her tongue into his mouth, swirling it around his. She then partially withdrew from his mouth to bite down on his lower lip. From there she moved on to his neck which she nipped once, twice, repeatedly.

"S-…S-…Selling!" she huffed between her labored breaths as she moved back to his mouth with lust aforethought. Before she was aware of it, her one knee was raised against his hip, her thigh pressed against his. She began a slow grinding motion. _How?_ Her brain must have sent the command while completely bypassing her rational thought process. It was thigh against thigh, pelvis against pelvis. Up and down, up and down. Then suddenly it stopped. That's when he pulled away from her and in one fluid motion drew his Glock from within his jacket, then spun to face the alley's entrance from the sidewalk, at which he had the pistol trained.

"Whoever you are, I have you in my sights!" he issued with calm authority. "Step closer to where I can see you!"

Phoebe should have been grateful that Arnold's suspicion of them being tailed was well-founded. She should have been grateful that his motivations in the alleyway were indeed wholly honorable. Instead, she was overcome by frustration as she watched him issue his commands. She barely realized that both her hands were raised to her shoulder height, nor that an indignant look of '_What the fuck, Arnold!_' was in danger of being permanently etched on her face. Her frustration, she observed, had everything to do with the rudely interrupted heavy petting session, _diversion be damned!_

"Don't shoot, Arnold! I'm a friend. _I'm on your side_!" the voice pleaded.

"Like I've never heard that before! No sudden movements, hands where I can see them! Step into the light and show your face!" Arnold still had his weapon pointed at the stranger. Except, he would have been a stranger had Phoebe not instantly recognized his voice. She peered around the corner and instantly recognized the owner of the wheezing voice, or at least his shadowy outline. In his one hand, an object was distinguishable. A paper bag, maybe? Yes, definitely a paper bag.

"Brainy?" she asked in loud surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," he replied, keeping his hands in the air. Then to Arnold: "Hey Arnold."

If he intended to create a dramatic entrance by stepping into the light, the effect was instantly lost when Phoebe followed up with another question: "Brainy, what happened to your face?"

* * *

_Olga Pataki-Vasquez_.

No matter how many times she ran that name through her head, Olga would always be rendered giddy by its implications.

It meant she had found a husband.

It meant she had found a reason to live.

It meant she had found an elusive ray of light and hope after her life turned to shit seventeen years ago.

Seventeen years ago, Olga Pataki was arrested along with her father following the fracas with several police officials at her baby sister's memorial. She was charged for Obstruction of Justice and Resisting Arrest. Both charges were later dropped based on her mental distress at the time; cold comfort, really, given how her life would unravel shortly afterward.

Before her sister's death, Olga Pataki was staring down a most promising teaching career. Her very public arrest and mental meltdown earned her brief internet notoriety and even generated its share of memes, however, her career prospects in education evaporated overnight. She became toxic in the eyes of the nation's school districts and was plunged further into her mental instability. Her father's brutal trial, with her mother as the star witness, was the final push that sent her into a dark, dark unhappy place. At this point, she was committed to a mental institution where she received intense therapy and through trial and error was eventually prescribed an effective course of medication comprising Xanax, Zoloft, and Paxil.

Though she was loath to admit it, Olga Pataki could not have survived her mental ordeal without the intervention of one person.

Miriam Pataki.

Mother…

Mommy…

Nevertheless, Olga Pataki hated Miriam.

She hated the fact the Miriam was the only family and support she had left. She hated the fact that _she _was the only family that Miriam had left. The Pataki clan had abandoned Miriam for her perceived betrayal of Robert. The same clan had written off Olga for her perceived weakness in not defending her father.

Olga Pataki hated the woman. Olga Pataki hated her for being able to put those ugly events behind her. Olga Pataki hated the unconditional love and support the woman showed to her during her mental recovery. Olga Pataki hated the woman's resilience in turning around the beeper emporium's fortunes. Olga Pataki hated that the woman could rise from the ashes while she couldn't.

Olga Pataki-Vasquez was presently seated at the grand piano in the living room of her home, lost in the intricacies of Mozart's _Rondo Alla Turca_. She was, after all, a classically trained concert-level pianist able to play any given piece through muscle memory alone.

The piano was a birthday gift from Mark, her husband, and anchor in life. They originally met seven years before. Following her release from the mental institution, Olga Pataki was still unable to obtain any teaching jobs; she did, however, obtain a job in a coffee shop slash bookstore. It wasn't much of a living, but her animosity towards Miriam dictated that she refuse any of that woman's offers of assistance. Besides, the job offered a chance for her to indulge in another of her great loves: reading. During her work, she encountered a patrolman who fast became a regular customer, always asking to be served by the 'exquisite blond beauty'. He was a lot of positive adjectives: handsome; charming; intelligent; astute; almost as well-read as she was.

Most importantly, he was interested in _her_.

Olga Pataki-Vasquez instinctively switched to the delicately intense notes of Claude Debussy's _Clair de Lune_ as she recalled their courtship, how it developed over two years from a mutual trust to love, to their eventual marriage.

Mark was just so good to her. When he made detective, he used some of his clout to get her a better-paying and more fulfilling job as a district librarian. It was he who urged her to reach out to and reconnect with Miriam. Admittedly the mother/daughter relationship was still heavily strained – she doubted that it could be salvaged – but for his sake, she was willing to give it her best shot. The periodic visits to her baby sister's grave seemed as good a starting point as any to find common ground between the two.

Only…

Lately, he was becoming more…was it distant? Secretive? Elusive? He seemed no less devoted to her than on that day five years ago when they exchanged vows. He was always even-tempered, he had never raised his voice to her, much less struck her.

And yet…

She realized that she was now punishing the piano keys as she had now switched to Prokofiev's _Piano Sonata No. 7_, in particular, the chaotic, almost discordant notes and chords of the third movement that seemed to reflect her confusion over the most recent developments. For the past three months – and particularly since his recent commendation – Mark didn't seem to be getting the same satisfaction out of his work as had previously been the case. In fact, for the past three or so months, he'd been on more stakeouts and had been arranging more and more task forces and operations at the station.

Come to think of it, normally he'd freely – even boastfully – tell her of the outcomes of each of those operations. The last one, however – that double murder suspect in the boonies. He never told her how that one played out. Maybe it was just an oversight on his part. She'd ask him now, but he was back at the station, dealing with the apprehension of yet another suspect.

Olga Pataki-Vasquez wanted to believe in a simple explanation for all these niggling doubts. So she went back to playing, in the hope that Johann Pachelbel's _Canon_ could soothe the unease and the confusion currently occupying her conscious mind.

There had to be an easy explanation.

* * *

Brainy was relieved when Arnold finally allowed him to lower his hands. He was even more relieved when he saw Arnold holster his weapon. They and Phoebe had moved further into the alley, further away from Hillwood's surveillance camera network.

"OK, Brainy, you found me. Now what?" Arnold hadn't forgotten that the events that had befallen him over the past two days – meeting Phoebe; the shootout; the road trip; Big Gino – could all be traced back to Brainy's revelation to Phoebe that Arnold was still alive and well.

Brainy, for his part, was aware that being anything less than 100% honest and forthright with the ex-soldier was not going to do either of them any favors.

"Now? You finish what you started!" Blunt, no excuses, no obfuscation.

"Excuse me?"

"Did I stutter?" Sure, he sounded tough now that Arnold wasn't pointing his gun at him. "Your story in Hillwood isn't over yet."

"You mean our battle against Scheck, right?" Phoebe inquired.

"Correction, it's _your_ battle," Brainy stayed on Arnold. "Always has been. Phoebe and I, we've just been carrying the torch for you while you were away. We've always been your support."

At this point, Phoebe fully insinuated herself into the conversation: "Now wait a minute, Brainy! My career was my own choice! I _chose_ to work on this investigation. Arnold had nothing to do with any of my decisions!"

"Are you sure about that?" Brainy turned to address Phoebe. "Would the three of us still be having this conversation if the incident never occurred? _You_, Phoebe. Would you still have wanted to be a journalist? Probably not. And Arnold," he turned back to the now wary blond man without waiting for a response from Phoebe, "would becoming one of Uncle Sam's finest killing machines have been your first career choice, had the blast never occurred? Be honest."

"So what if it wasn't? What's your point, Brainy?" Arnold fired back. "What would _you_ have been if not for the incident? I mean, what difference is there between you now and that creepy guy you were back in school?"

"If you _must_ know," Brainy wasn't backing down, "I always saw myself as an accountant or a DJ. What about you two? Phoebe, what would you be? Probably the world's greatest scientist, doing something that you actually _want_ to do."

Phoebe's nod conceded that he was at least partway right. But she quickly recomposed herself with: "Are you seriously blaming Arnold for everything that's happened to us and Hillwood? None of what happened was ever his fault!"

"I said it was his _fight_. Never said it was his fault." Brainy corrected. Then back to Arnold in a more reassuring voice: "Never believed it was your fault. _Ever_. What happened seventeen years ago is all on Scheck and Santalov. No way you or any of us would have seen it coming."

"_That's_ comforting!" rebuked Arnold. "At least _you_ don't carry the load of rounding all the people you loved and cared about, the people who all meant a damn to you, into a giant fucking kill zone. All I wanted to do was say I'm sorry!"

"_So_…it's closure you've been chasing all this time, is it?" deduced Brainy.

"Yes," conceded Arnold.

"A chance to show that the whole thing wasn't your fault?"

A deep sigh of reluctance, then, "Y-yes."

"And one last chance to tell a certain someone that you truly loved her?"

Arnold paused at that statement, dumbfounded.

"After all," continued Brainy, "that last one's the very reason you were late to the party." Arnold's pupils instantly became pinpricks.

Hoping that he had earned sufficient trust from Arnold, Brainy then reached inside the paper bag he had brought to their meeting. He produced from it a most tattered-looking gift box. The box had seen better days and parts of it were also caked in specks of dried blood. Regardless, the sight of it had Arnold suddenly choking back what Brainy and Phoebe could only guess was years' worth of repressed emotion.

"It's perfectly understandable, of course," Brainy said. "You wanted it to be _just_ right. The perfect gift for the perfect girl. Too bad it caused you to run late. And when you saved Phoebe," he motioned to Phoebe, whose disbelief had built up to equal Arnold's, "I don't know…flying shrapnel struck you, maybe ripped a hole in your pocket, caused this to fall out when you ran down the alley to get away from the dust cloud. That's where I found it a week later…I mean, the investigators only focussed on the building wreckage, and the whole block was like a ghost town anyway. I kept it safe all these years. I kept it in a safety deposit box ever since I could afford one. Never opened it even once."

He then held out the box for Arnold's acceptance.

Arnold's lips were trembling at the revelation. "It…it was meant to be a surprise. A thank-you." With barely composed hands he accepted the box. He paused as he slowly opened it, fearing for the state of its contents. The box itself may have been badly damaged, but what it contained was still in immaculate condition.

A gold-plated, heart-shaped locket.

"Of course I was happy to have my parents back. I was over the moon with joy. I couldn't spend enough time catching up with them. But I couldn't ignore Helga either." He choked up momentarily but proceeded. "All those chores I did. All those jobs I took…" Arnold sniffled as he lifted the locket out of the box and held it on display to Brainy and Phoebe. "Just to tell her I was sorry and grateful and that I loved her," he continued as he prized open the locket. It yielded a picture of Helga nestled in one half, and one of Arnold in the other.

Printed across both pictures was a message. "_A new heart_…_for the awesome girl who won mine_," Arnold read, his sniffling not abating. "So cheesy, isn't it? Like something an eleven-year-old might write."

"She's waiting for you, you know?" Brainy's voice shook Arnold out of his state of mourning. He then gave Arnold directions to Helga's grave. "Whatever you want to say to her, she'll listen. A few words of warning though…"

Phoebe, who had listened to the preceding exchange with rapt concentration, interjected before Brainy could list his warnings. "Brainy, if I may be so bold to enquire…but by any chance did you love Helga too?"

Brainy wavered for a moment, then replied: "As much as she loved Arnold."

Neither Phoebe nor Arnold were prepared for his confession. To be fair, Brainy too was surprised at his candidness in answering Phoebe's question, but now he had no choice but to go all-in. "But she chose Arnold and I respected her decision. One hundred percent."

It made sense now to Arnold and especially to Phoebe. Brainy's answer explained almost everything: his motivations and his reasons to go above and beyond for them.

_Almost_ everything, as Arnold would point out: "One more question, Brainy. How the hell did you survive at ground zero?"

* * *

It was almost too much for them to digest.

For all these years, Brainy had been shining a torch for Helga, for Arnold and Phoebe, for Hillwood itself. Phoebe had realized in the alley that as committed as she was to justice, she was but a grain of sand in a vast desert compared to Brainy.

Brainy, as it turned out, didn't work exclusively for her; his services were for all who needed the help, whether or not there was financial benefit in it for him. In the case of Phoebe and Arnold, the latest help was in the form of new, useful and disturbing intel.

There was Vasquez's link to the remaining Pataki's. "_No! Olga_?" quoth an astounded Phoebe, who theretofore knew her only as 'the wife'. No name attached, for the sake of indifference, distance, and denial.

There was Olga Pataki-Vasquez, her past and present vulnerabilities and her inadvertent role in this mess and Brainy's wish to get her out as cleanly as possible.

There was Vasquez's role in Scheck's organization and his highly probable knowledge of Arnold's presence in Hillwood.

However, there was no explanation for Brainy's survival seventeen years ago. "Focus on the present!" he urged them, refusing to address the matter any further.

The pair were now approaching the front door of Phoebe's residence, having parted ways with Brainy. Phoebe's gait from the alley was much more subdued than it was from the restaurant. Arnold's too. In fact, their overall mood had become more pensive.

So much more to contemplate.

For Arnold, it was the exact implications of Hillwood PD's finest detective having access to the resources of Scheck, over and above what could reasonably be assumed to be the former's _already_ formidable information network.

Phoebe's contemplation was more personal. Up until half an hour ago, she was aware only that she had cheated _with_ someone: Mark. Half an hour ago she found out who it was they were cheating _on_.

Olga.

Olga Pataki-Vasquez, née Pataki, _sister_ to the greatest friend Phoebe had ever had. _Ever_.

The length of the statistical probabilities at work here did little to ease her conscience; in point of fact, she felt downright qualmy at the thought of having – _unwittingly_, she kept reminding herself as if it would minimize the impact – been made to take advantage of an already emotionally vulnerable woman.

Phoebe needed an outlet for her frustrations. She needed to forget, no matter how temporarily, about _that_ indiscretion. Which was why as soon as she unlocked the front door, she stormed to the alarm keypad to enter the security code, leaving Arnold to lock the door. As he did so, she kicked off her heels and removed her jewelry. She then strode purposefully back to Arnold, whom she grabbed by his tie and whispered to him with the same calm urgency he'd displayed in the alley: "Listen, Arnold. I'm going to kiss you now. Can't explain now; please go along."

She made good on her word by bringing her lips to his. Almost instantaneously, she felt her tongue slip into his mouth with his immediate reciprocation. Their tongues wrestled with each other in a most glorious game as they became addicted to each other's taste. She felt Arnold's arms envelop her body. Their kissing intensified as the heat of the moment rose, steadily and inexorably.

When…

"Wait, Phoebe, wait!" Arnold pulled away, his excited tone at odds with his words and action. Phoebe was confused. Not for long; he only needed time and space to remove his jacket, tie and holster, all of which he placed on the lounge's coffee table. No sooner was that accomplished when Phoebe was back all over him, kissing him and running her hands along his head, hair and neck, unable to get enough of him.

Arnold backed Phoebe towards the couch, where she dropped with a surprised high-pitched whoop to a seated position, with him now kneeling in front of her with his head lowered onto her lap. Slowly he lifted her right leg by the ankle and proceeded to plant soft delicate kisses, working his way higher.

Ankle.

"_Higher."_

Calf, shin. Kisses for the scar tissue, the symbol of her strength and reminder of her resolve.

"_Mm. More."_

Inner thigh. Higher. Higher.

"_Don't stop! Please, Arnold, don't stop!"_

He placed his hands on either side at the lap of her dress. Slowly he pushed up, watching as the fabric bunched up with the dress riding up past her hips to reveal a pair of silken navy blue panties. He then moved his hands down, catching on to the panties along the way and just as slowly guiding them down her legs and away from her body. Briefly, he marveled at what was revealed. She was pink and fleshy, surrounded by black and fuzzy: all in all, warm and inviting.

He went to work.

He stroked, he nuzzled. He tantalized, he stimulated. He kissed, he lapped. Phoebe's pitch rose in fitful gasps at his efforts, building up to a crackling crescendo that she did her best to muffle for fear of disturbing any neighbors. Before long, she was moist and glistening, ready to receive him.

"_Hurry up, Arnold!_"

How was it possible for someone to sound so strict and insistent yet so weakly, all at the same time? No time! He stood up and frantically – _desperately_ – kicked off his shoes before undoing and stripping off his pants and boxers as quickly as he could. Free at last!

Phoebe motioned for him to sit beside her, whereupon she swung herself in a wide 180 motion to straddle him on his lap, her arms wrapped around him. A few gentle grinds followed, her pelvis against his. Her seam against his shaft. Seam against shaft. Pressing, grinding, until…

"_Oh yes!"_ He slipped into her.

Phoebe paused for her mind and nervous system to process the dizzying sensation of having Arnold inside her again. Already she could feel her breathing quickening. Arnold, meanwhile, focused on her breasts. He gave the occasional pelvic thrust – a warm-up…no, a prelude, to so much more – while his hands cupped, caressed and kneaded her breasts, all to her appreciative and encouraging moans. He moved on to her dress's shoulder straps, easing them down her shoulders. Phoebe helped him out by slipping her arms through the loops, and there they were! Phoebe's breasts, exposed to Arnold's loving admiration. Still maintaining a slow constant pelvic thrusting rhythm, Arnold gave some attention to the newly liberated mammaries: kisses and suckling on the nipples and areolae, again to Phoebe's ever-heightening bliss.

"_So…good...Arnold!_"

At this point, Arnold's thrusts had become harder and faster. For Phoebe, it was the start of a carnal aria performed in quickening breaths and intermittent gasps of rapture. Her breathing, her gasps…Arnold was addicted to them; he didn't want to stop. Eventually, however, the urgency was there. The urgency for release, at odds with him wanting to continue hearing Phoebe's sonorous moans and gasps as she reacted to his thrusts. He forced himself to keep going. He didn't mind at all: Phoebe's voice approaching climax was just too addictive.

And then…

He felt how she arched her back violently, holding the position with stiffened, spasming muscles and another muted shriek that badly wanted to proclaim her paroxysmal excitement to all the world. Arnold, satisfied at his accomplishment, followed suit with his long-delayed discharge.

Straight afterward, their lips found each other for a hungry, passionate, lingering kiss. Their tongues were back to wrestling one another. Finally, they broke away long enough for Arnold to ask as he recalled a previous conversation: "So Phoebe, was this sex or was this love?"

Phoebe smiled a smile for him that was both earnest and coquettish. She simply said: "Yes."

* * *

Detective Mark Vasquez felt heartened.

Rawlins had come through for him and even provided the requested photographic evidence. The detective liked what he saw. Everything was staged just the way he had requested it.

"Excellent work, Rawlins. These are _exactly_ what I wanted!"

"That's _Colonel_ Rawlins, son!"

"Two words, _Rawlins_," the detective placed particular emphasis on the surname. "Dishonourable. Discharge. Focus more on earning your fat paycheck. And stay alert. I'm forwarding the pictures, so Shortman will be appearing very soon."

He ended the call and immediately set his plan in motion.

* * *

Arnold and Phoebe had sex once more after their initial session. Both found the second session no less spectacular or satisfying than the first.

Intimacy and sartorial dishevelment abounded as they sat in each other's silent embrace. Both were silently contemplating the way forward in terms of a shared future were the Scheck matter to be resolved.

Many thoughts, many possibilities; not a word was spoken. Arnold's ringing phone broke the silence, arguably the intimate mood too.

"Were you expecting anyone?" asked Phoebe.

"Nah," replied a nonchalant Arnold. "Maybe Arnie finally thought of a name for his daughter and wants to share the good news."

Arnold retrieved his phone from his jacket and suddenly stared suspiciously at the '_Number Unknown_' displayed. Probably Brainy showing off his prowess at tracing phone numbers.

He answered: "OK, Brainy, I get it! You're the master at gathering intel!"

A male voice on the other side: "Oh Arnold my love! I'm afraid you have me mistaken for someone else!"

"Who is this?" Arnold demanded in a voice that piqued Phoebe's interest enough to force her off the couch.

"This, Arnoldo, is Detective Vasquez of the Hillwood PD," his voice was oozing with mockery.

"Vasquez!" Arnold hissed bitterly at the revelation.

"Oh! I see Phoebe has told you about me already. A bad case of buyer's remorse, don't you think, Football Head? She fucks me, then talks shit about me when I break it up with her. Bitches be trippin'! What you gonna do, brother?"

Arnold didn't take the bait; he wasn't going to play the detective's game.

"What do you want, Vasquez?"

"Oooooh, tough crowd! Guess I'll get to the point, then. See, Arnold, I feel you ought to know of some isolated instances of vandalism."

"Yeah? And exactly what does any of this have to do with me?"

"I've texted you some pictures. You might find them most interesting indeed."

Arnold let his even temperament slide: "Vasquez, what the fuck are you on about?"

"Temper, Arnoldo, temper! Aren't you supposed to be the level-headed one of the group? Of course, that's the reason a certain blond girl hated your guts and loved you at the same time! I mean, whatever did you see in that batshit crazy weirdo to ever love her?"

Arnold felt his anger build sharply, his calm slip. But before he could lash out at the caller, his text notification sounded, and the detective chimed in: "Aha! Those will be the pictures I alluded to. I leave you to study them. Cheers, you football headed love god!"

He then ended the call.

"Was that Mark?" asked Phoebe who had tidied herself somewhat before joining Arnold. "Oh my god! Is he on to us?"

Arnold gave a vexed nod.

"What did he say?" The anxiety was showing in her voice. "Arnold, _what did he say_?"

"Something about vandalism," recalled Arnold as he opened the text messages. "Fuck!" he let out in disbelief as he viewed the first picture. His distress only increased as he viewed the subsequent pictures. "_That fucking bastard!_"

"What, Arnold?" pleaded Phoebe.

He handed his phone to her, and her eyes widened as her disbelief matched his upon viewing the pictures.

Three pictures. Three gravesites, the headstones smashed with a sledgehammer left lying in each foreground. Also in the foreground, a partially reassembled section of the headstone displaying the names of the deceased.

'**_Phil and Gertie Shortman'_**

_'**Miles and Stella Shortman'**_

_'**Helga Geraldine Pataki'**_

"Oh my god, Arnold! What are we going to do now?"

"You will stay here," Arnold's tone suggested no room for argument. "I'll be tending to this matter. They're waiting for me at the cemetery."

"So you can walk into an ambush!" Phoebe wasn't having it. "No, Arnold! You won't be throwing your life away like that! That's what he wants you to do."

She then saw his eyes take on a battle-hardened resolve that she hadn't seen before. "Trust me," he said, "I'm not the one dying tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I didn't necessarily intend it this way, but I've come to see Detective Mark Vasquez as an (OC) in-universe representation of someone outside of the Hey Arnold fandom who doesn't understand the complex dynamics and idiosyncrasies of the show and its characters. It just made it easier for me to turn him into the unsympathetic character he's always been.
> 
> Author's Note #2: My mantra in writing the sex scene remained unchanged from writing the one in Chapter 8. "Vivid, but not graphic."
> 
> Author's Note #3: You've noticed that I've started with callbacks and references to previous chapters, both minor and major. This was always part of the plan; after all, I am attempting a mystery subplot.
> 
> Author's Note #4: The Spotify list for this chapter was quite an extensive one (not including the classical pieces referenced in the chapter), so please bear with me:  
If You Leave - Nada Surf  
Mourning - Tantric  
Breathing - Watershed  
Indigo Girl - Watershed  
Brown Eyed Girl - Tevin Campbell  
Move Closer - Phyllis Nelson  
Independent Love Song - Scarlet  
Soldier - Eminem  
Mama Said Knock You Out - LL Cool J


	13. The Devil In Me And The Goddess In You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Brainy presents an important piece of Arnold's past to him. Phoebe gains disturbing insight into her past indiscretion. Arnold and Phoebe have a second, more deliberate, consummation. Vasquez baits Arnold into his trap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

"**_Arnold, what you're contemplating is suicide! You're playing directly into their hands!"_**

Those were Phoebe's words, forty-something minutes ago, spelling out her disapproval of his decision. His decision to engage the enemy in the battle zone of _their_ designation. The battle zone he was now approaching on foot.

"**_Phoebe, there's no choice but to play their game."_**

That was his answer. It had always been his answer. As a soldier, he never had his choice of battlefields. Someone else decided. Someone else always would decide, and his was never to reason why. But he always had the gift of survival; why would tonight be any different?

"**_Sure there is! Just wait it out! Show them you're above such cheap psychology!"_**

Vasquez had figured out his connection to Helga and was using the knowledge to get inside Arnold's head. That much was a certainty. Zero chance of the cop himself being at the cemetery tonight. He seemed smart enough to distance himself from the war zone.

"**_Dammit, Phoebe, you're not thinking! They'll just escalate if I no-show! They'll probably go after Arnie and his family next to get at me! Maybe even your parents! And don't even think they're above that!"_**

No doubt Vasquez was doing Scheck's bidding here. No doubt the men they'd send were not in-house. They'd send mercs: off the books, completely deniable, expendable, able to work at short notice.

"**_You're the one not thinking this through! Helga…is dead! Your family as well! Do you think going out there and doing…well, whatever you plan on doing…do you think it will miraculously bring them back?"_**

The gate was approaching: The northern entrance, where he and the boys had their Ghost Bride misadventure all those years back, He hadn't returned to the cemetery since then; he had no reason to do so. Still, he remembered it well enough. Thankfully it was situated in a flat area with almost no undulations. The surrounding buildings were all low enough to offer no real advantage in elevation for a sniper, and even if they did, night-time would make target acquisition too difficult for sniping to be viable. Thus any engagement would be strictly close-range, a battle of attrition.

"**_Of course not! But we need to send these assholes a message that we're willing to push back!"_**

He paused at the gate. He was fully aware that he was being surveilled. They were there. Somewhere. Waiting. Waiting for him to enter. Then they'd move in from wherever they were based.

"'**_We', Arnold? 'We'?"_**

Breathing, deep and slow. Charging his blood, steeling himself for what was to follow the moment he hopped that gate. OK, let's do it.

"**_You think I'm doing this alone? We're a team, remember?"_**

* * *

"**_So…when you say we're a team… No way, Arnold! I refuse to go anywhere near the cemetery!"_**

He'd be the last to admit it, but Arnold was always quite the statesman when it came to convincing others to do things which took them out of their comfort zones, or even ran contrary to their better judgments. Worst of all was that he always seemed unaware of this particular talent of his, and as a result, was never arrogant or forceful in making his peers buy into his ideas. It had worked on Phoebe several times back in PS 118 and she feared that it would work on her tonight.

"**_And you won't have to. Let me show you something…"_**

It did.

Phoebe did, however, have to admit a profound admiration of Arnold's level of preparedness. Included in Arnold's luggage had been a laptop of his own, as well as a sturdy case revealed to contain a compact but apparently very long-range drone featuring a 4K video recorder (with night vision, no less). Also in the case, a set of two-way radio earpieces.

"**_I still think you're taking an unnecessary risk. Did it ever occur to you that you aren't insuperable?"_**

It did.

And that was why Phoebe was at the house, operating the drone via Arnold's laptop. Arnold truthfully reassured her she'd easily pick up the rudimentary skills, citing that Arnie achieved mastery within minutes. Here was Phoebe, connected to Arnold via her earpiece. Phoebe Heyerdahl: literally the difference between life or death for Arnold.

"**_Maybe I wasn't clear enough, but you'll be staying here because you'll be my support. My spotter. I go this alone; I might as well shoot myself now. With you, I've got a chance of survival. We've…got a chance of survival."_**

The drone was performing adequately as it hovered visually undetectable in the dark above Hillwood Cemetery. Phoebe was viewing its visuals via the lounge's flatscreen TV, to which she had connected the laptop. She could see Arnold, at the North gate through which he said he'd enter. He'd made the three-mile trek in forty minutes using the alleys, backroads and other shortcuts that he hoped would bypass whatever surveillance the city of Hillwood had in place.

"**_God, Arnold! Do you know how many times Helga whined and moaned to me about your overwhelming optimism? She'd complain of how you always naïvely held out for a solution no matter how long the odds."_**

She saw him pause at the gate. Was he having second thoughts? No, not Arnold! Nobody was more stubborn than him in sticking with a plan. He was probably preparing himself mentally for what was to follow. Most likely he was double-checking his gear. She recalled his attire when he left the house: Thick, relaxed-fitting jeans; heavy black leather combat boots; black long-sleeved combat shirt. And covering everything, a dark grey overcoat.

"**_It's going to be tough. I know that. But we'll pull through. At the very least we can set back their plans. Buy us some more time. Maybe learn more about their operation."_**

She felt a lump form in her throat as she watched him hop the fence into the cemetery. This was uncharted territory, and it frightened her. All she could do now was assist to the best of her diligence and also to trust in his – admittedly – formidable abilities. She offered a prayer to any deity listening that he'd make it back safely.

"**_OK Arnold, OK! You've made a compelling enough argument. One more thing: please, please come back."_**

* * *

Arnold sprinted to get clear of the fence as quickly as possible; he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the enemies as he could. He jinked among the tombstones, using whatever subterfuge they would provide.

Until he heard from Phoebe, he was operating blind. He did, however, have the framework of a strategy in place: reach a central area, wait for any confirmation from Phoebe, take it from there.

"Arnold, I have several hostiles entering through the northern entrances," came Phoebe's urgent voice through the earpiece.

"How many?"

"Let me see. Six…eight…twelve…fifteen! And they've arranged themselves into a single-file column. They're advancing slowly in your direction."

"Thanks, Phoebe."

So they knew he was here, but not his exact location. They'd be advancing cautiously, itchy trigger fingers at the ready. Best to take advantage of their nervousness. To that end, he produced a device – a simulator, as he explained earlier to Phoebe – which he placed in some shrubbery near a seemingly abandoned gravestone. For no particular reason, he looked at the engraving:

'**Here lies Cynthia Snell. She lived her life and went straight to...'**

Déjà vu all over again! And they still hadn't straightened the stone…

"Arnold!" Phoebe's voice was panicked, impatient; quiet nonetheless, as per his rushed coaching. "They're closing in on you!"

"Range?" Arnold remained calm. Professional.

Silence.

"Range!"

"Close! Sixty yards, maybe." Her nerves had not abated.

"Keep it together, Phoebe. You're doing great!" he reassured her in a hushed tone. Then, more instructions: "Phoebe, mark my present location. Let me know the moment they cross this point. You got that?"

"Marking!"

Arnold then bolted, away from Cynthia Snell and the advancing party. Twenty-five yards later, he found a monolithic granite headstone behind which he took refuge_. Strange that the dead must protect me tonight_, he reflected as he crouched down.

Waiting…

Waiting, as a flurry of light beams – no doubt from barrel-mounted flashlights – came into view, scouring all directions for life and movement.

Waiting as he produced his phone to open a remote control app.

Waiting for Phoebe's word.

Waiting…

Waiting…

"Arnold! They're at your previous location!"

A long, silent countdown for himself.

_Five…_

_Four…_

_Three…_

_Two…_

_One…_

He tapped _Enter_ on the phone.

The simulator went to work. It sounded off a steady series of firecracker explosions, mimicking the report of an automatic weapon. It had the desired effect: it distracted his adversaries.

"CONTACT! _CONTACT_!" shouted one of them as they all turned away from Arnold to return full-auto fire. Their backs turned, their silhouettes illuminated by their muzzle flashes: perfect targets for Arnold, who had placed his phone back in his coat pocket and drawn his Glock. He broke cover and aimed at the closest targets.

BAM-BAM! BAM-BAM! BAM-BAM! BAM-BAM! All in rapid succession.

Four targets. Eight shots. Eight center-mass hits. Eight cases of terminal tissue damage. Four bodies.

A fifth one, having heard the gunfire from behind and seen his fallen associates. "_SHIT, HE'S OVER HERE!_ _HE'S_… "

His second sentence went uncompleted; Arnold placed two shots in him as well, heart and lung. Down he went as well, to bleed out.

By this time the rest of the team had ceased firing to see what the commotion behind them was. They saw Arnold. Arnold saw them. As they turned their weapons towards him, he fired his last three rounds at them, causing them to duck momentarily and allow him to reclaim his cover behind the monolith.

Mere moments later the gunfire resumed, while Arnold's protection afforded him time enough to reload his pistol. As the headstone weathered the metal-jacketed barrage, he assessed the situation: ten bad guys; twenty-six bullets remaining. Full-auto toys for them with ammo to spare.

_Great…_

"_ADVANCE!_" the man giving the orders barked out and the reports started advancing towards Arnold. He was pinned down until he heard the firing stop, followed by frenzied movements as the gunmen scrambled to eject and replace their magazines.

This was the break he needed.

From his coat, he pulled a flashbang grenade – always a part of his arsenal. Time wasn't on his side – he could hear one or two weapons being cocked already – so he quickly pulled the pin and blindly threw the grenade in the gunmen's general direction. Arnold couldn't track its path, nor could his attackers as they were preoccupied with either reloading their weapons or reacquiring his location, but the attackers were relatively tightly grouped, and the grenade came in unseen at a low, shallow arc to land in the midst of them. By that time its shortened fuse had run its course and the grenade exploded with a brief but agonizing combination of noise and brightness which incapacitated the entire group.

Or so he hoped.

He emerged, pistol at the ready, from his cover again and advanced towards the groans and the disorientation, starting with the closest hostiles.

BAM! Headshot. Down.

BAM-BAM! Two in the thorax. Down.

BAM! Another headshot. Down

BAM! Trachea. Slick gargling sounds; drowning in his own blood.

All of this in three-and-a-bit seconds. He was fast; his thoughts, faster. Assessment: Eight rounds in the mag, six hostiles left. _Need one of those rifles_, he silently concluded to himself. So he moved to acquire the one closest to him. _Faster_, he goaded himself; the others were starting to recover their presence of mind. One had started blind-firing – spraying and praying – as Arnold picked up the weapon.

Arnold heard as bullets zinged past him, coming perilously close to nicking, grazing or penetrating him. _Time to move._ His advantage with the flashbang was over now that _they_ were coming to while _he_ was coming under suppressing fire.

He bolted. Slipping in and amongst even more headstones, coming under increased fire. _Need more distance_.

Then his luck stalled.

_Need to get_…His thought was halted by a lucky bullet that ripped through his left coat sleeve while deeply grazing the upper arm. Suddenly, his arm felt as though someone was holding an oxyacetylene torch to it.

They were there, the pain and the wound. He knew they were. He didn't acknowledge either; he couldn't afford it. Phoebe did, however, for the earpiece came to shrill life with her voice: "_ARNOLD!_"

One of the hostiles acknowledged as much as well: "He's winged! I got him! _I GOT HIM_!"

His comrades shared his optimism, as Arnold heard the gunfire intensify in his direction. Then, another ceasefire. _Oh shit!_ They were whispering among each other; were they going to try outflanking him? They knew he was hit and now they were going to take their sweet time.

He sprinted for more distance while doing some of his own whispering: "Phoebe!"

"Oh god Arnold are you okay are you hurt please don't die please don't die…!"

"Focus, Phoebe! I still need you." Not her assistance, but _her_.

He heard her trying to control her breathing. She was trying to keep herself together; she was fully in his world now and in over her head.

He softened his voice. "Relax, Phoebe. You're doing great as my spotter."

"Th-Thank you." She was putting on a brave front, which he needed from her. "I-I just wasn't sure…"

"Not now!" The urgency was back in his voice. "I think they're gonna try outflanking me. Check the footage. Where are they?"

A brief hesitation.

"They've split up. Three pairs…advancing slowly on your location."

"Range?"

Her voice took on a newfound layer of calculating professionalism. "About thirty yards. Converging in a pincer movement."

As he suspected. "Thanks, Phoebe." He then sighed, _back to work_. Time enough to inspect the rifle first. G36. Vertical foregrip (_Good news for the grazed arm._) Thirty-round mag, full. Selector switch on Full-Auto (_Ammo to spare_, his suspicion confirmed…). Click on Semi-Auto.

A voice, just as Arnold was done with his inspection. "You know you're gonna die tonight!" A shout, to be precise. "Three million for your dead body! Now there are fewer people left to split the reward!" This one from another direction, a different pair. Letting him know they didn't care that he knew their position, or that they were approaching, or that they were '_gonna fuck you up real good!_' according to the third pair. Laughter, derisive laughter. Mocking him. _Trying_ to mock him. "What's the matter? No more tricks left?"

"Phoebe," he whispered, "signal when left and right are in line with me. Got it?"

Her voice hinted that her composure was returning steadily, her trust in him increasing. "Understood!" He found this improvement in her voice somehow encouraging.

He crouched and waited. Staying out of sight. Waiting for Phoebe's signal. Not budging despite the approaching insults and takedowns.

"Aw, come on, Soldier Boy! Why so shy all of a sudden?" That first voice again, the one telling him he was going to die.

_Keep talking, assholes, _he thought. He was tracking the voices and the footfalls, getting an approximate bead on their relative locations. _Keep talking._

Then…

Phoebe's voice: "Aligning." He noted the more sinister tone encroaching on her nervousness.

Instantly, Arnold sprang up and fired at the footfalls coming down the middle.

_BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!_

Immediately afterward, he threw himself flat on the ground, just in time to avoid the full-auto return-fire. What he heard next confirmed that his gambit had paid off. In their haste, the groups on either side of him had created a crossfire. In their full-auto zeal, they had failed to _realize_ that they had created a crossfire.

"Arnold!" Phoebe reported through the earpiece. "The men on the flanks have eliminated each other!" The pained – possibly mortal – cries on either side of him seemed to confirm as much.

Still, no time to lose. Two more to go, no more time for finesse! They'd gone quiet upon hearing the aftermath of the crossfire.

"Last two, twenty yards, right in front of you!" It was Phoebe, reporting as if she was anticipating his next action. From rookie spotter to pro in record time. _What a woman!_ He began a charge towards the last two enemies. As soon as they came into sight, he peppered them with sustained semi-automatic fire.

_BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!_

_BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!_

He watched as four rounds tore into the one man's chest, doing fatal damage to his internal organs. The second one – the one Arnold presumed owned the taunting voice – copped four in his thigh, hip, and stomach.

"That's it, Arnold!" Phoebe reported. "All threats neutralized!"

"'Neutralized'?" a bemused Arnold quipped. "Not long ago you wanted nothing to do with any of this! Now look at you; talking like a veteran!"

"Needs must, Arnold," she replied. "Anything to get you out alive."

"Fair point," he conceded. "Now bring the drone back in. Its work here is done."

"What about…?"

Arnold cut her off. "Phoebe, you've seen more than enough tonight."

Arnold stood over his erstwhile taunter.

"Who sent you?"

"Aw come on! You know I can't answer that one! I signed an NDA. Corporate policy…!" the man coughed, sputtered and laughed self-reproachfully.

Arnold was not impressed. "Listen up," he impassively pointed out, "you've got two .223 rounds in your gut, which means your bloodstream is being poisoned by the crap in your intestines. Plus it looks like I got you in your liver, so that gives you twenty minutes, _tops_. Either way's a slow, painful death. Who sent you?"

The man's expression portrayed resignation to his impending fate, and he answered: "Hell if I know! You know how this business works! No names asked, no names given. Payment upon completion."

"Where were you going to be paid?"

"Back at the rendezvous." He proceeded to give the location, which as it turned out was very close to the cemetery.

"Someone offered you a three-million pot – in _cash_, probably – for a job at short notice. Surely you must have noticed something unusual."

The man's speech had started becoming more febrile. "Hey, a job's…a job. Guy must have some…serious juice. We were told…no police until…after…job was done. Plus…flights out of the country…before they even…arrive. You must have pissed this man off…big time."

"What about a handler? A guy named Vasquez, by any chance?"

"Never heard of him…" was the wounded man's reply. "Our man…called himself Rawlins."

The mention of which ramrodded Arnold into full attention. "Rawlins? _Charles_ Rawlins?"

"No first name. Fucker always…_insisted_…we all call him 'Colonel'." His exertion elicited another pained groan. "Yeah right," he continued. "Didn't look like he…knew…one end of a gun…from…the other."

_Rawlins? Is he in bed with Scheck?_

Arnold's mind raced back to Asmara. Rawlins' actions, were they deliberate back then? Did he betray the unit and knowingly send them into an ambush. And was he doing Scheck's bidding in the process? Arnold felt compelled to know.

"Last question. Is Rawlins at the rendezvous right now?"

"Yes." The answer was simple. Then: "Can I ask a…favour?" He was now sweating profusely.

"What?"

"Don't want…to wait…twenty minutes. Too…much…pain."

"Understood," Arnold acknowledged as he pointed the rifle at the man's brow and pulled the trigger.

* * *

"Arnold?" Phoebe's voice over the earpiece conveyed sombreness more than it did anger or disgust. "Was killing that man really necessary? I mean, fair point if he was still trying to kill you. But downed and wounded? And unarmed?"

In her voice too was a sense that she'd been looking for the courage to ask him that precise question.

"That was mercy, not murder," Arnold replied, expressionless. "He was dead anyway and he knew it. Say he survived and made it back, then whoever hired him would have killed him to avoid a hospital visit for GSW treatment. He'd have been a major loose end."

"But you did it so casually and without even flinching."

"It's how I was trained, is all."

Arnold was making his way to Rawlins' location. True to the dead man's word, there was no police presence anywhere along the cemetery's perimeter. None whatsoever. Had anyone other than Scheck been attached to this operation, the police would have already reacted to any number of 911 calls citing automatic gunfire. SWAT teams would have already been deployed to address the situation.

But no, the streets and sidewalks were clear, as was his path to the rendezvous point. No-one around to question a man walking the streets while open-carrying an assault weapon.

"Arnold, I accept that your conditioned responses to threats to your life are as a result of your military training. I'll even accept it if you were somehow hardwired to act this way. But the way you…executed…that man without hesitation. The way you're casually talking about it now. There's no other way to describe it: it frightens me…significantly."

"Listen, Phoebe. Who I am…what I've become…it doesn't change how I feel about you."

"Oh? And what exactly do you mean by that?" Confusion had now started displacing her solemnity.

"Remember our trip back to Hillwood? When we shared some of our deepest secrets?"

"Yes?"

"OK well…uh…I've come to trust you enough…that is, I care about you enough…to let you see me for who I really am…and what I've truly become."

The rendezvous point was an abandoned flophouse, located among a row of similarly somewhat derelict and abandoned flophouses and brownstones, situated two blocks from the cemetery. Arnold's destination was a three-story structure, and if his informant was to be believed then their base was set up on the top floor.

"Now I'm uncertain! Am I to be flattered by your gesture, or afraid?"

"You are to be informed. You should see the true nature of the man you've twice had sex with, almost immediately after not seeing him in seventeen years."

"It's four times, Arnold. You're counting the nights; _I'm_ counting the individual sessions."

"Point being," Arnold hastily added, "that if you're anywhere near as eager for a deeper relationship as I am, then we should start by accepting each other, faults and all."

"Hey!" Phoebe indignantly shot back. "You're being awfully assumptious, aren't you?"

"Enough talk!" His voice was now abrupt. "I'm approaching their HQ. Radio silence, please?"

Phoebe did not like the conversation being cut short and made her annoyance known with a distinctive _hmph_.

Arnold was ascending the last flight of stairs to the third story. He had been surprised to find no guards left behind, nor any surveillance devices or booby traps. These guys, he surmised, must have been banking on getting paid and out of the country before the authorities were any the wiser to their base. _Their mistake_, he reckoned.

Eventually, he was on the top floor, which was an open-plan design perhaps originally intended as a storage area. On one side of the room, he saw an impressive array of tech equipment. Several laptops each connected to an additional monitor. He noted how each laptop/display combination was connected to a different camera in Hillwood's surveillance network. They had all the angles around the cemetery covered, so they were onto him the moment he reached the gate already. _Clever_, Arnold sighed in begrudging admiration to the hostiles' preparedness. He had been fortunate that there were no surveillance cameras inside the cemetery itself.

On the other side of the area was an orderly row of sleeping bags and rucksacks, sixteen in total by Arnold's count. They were all situated near a fire escape, no doubt for easy entry and egress. Also, resting against the nearby wall, a sledgehammer. The same sledgehammer which was shown in the pictures in front of the shattered headstones.

Before he could dwell further on the tool, he focussed back on the sleeping bags._ Wait, who owns the sixteenth one?_

The answer came when he heard footfalls approaching his location from the stairwell, accompanied by very audible muttering over the rudimentary bathroom facilities.

Charles Rawlins walked in and immediately froze at the sight of Arnold's rifle trained on him.

"Shortman?" he shouted incredulously. "You're supposed to be dead!"

"Rawlins," Arnold replied laconically. "You mean like I was supposed to be dead back in Asmara?"

"Fuck you, Shortman. That was just bad intel!"

Arnold's response to that statement was a shot to Rawlins's outer right thigh, which was enough to have the pasty, balding, overweight blowhard writhing in pain on the floor.

"You son of a bitch! You shot me!" The senior man was about to begin a long list of pejoratives when Arnold cut him short.

"Shut up. I only got the muscle. I didn't get any arteries. Now talk! Asmara: why?"

At this point, Rawlins fully realized Lieutenant Shortman's seriousness, as well as the futility in lying to him.

"Fine. Yes, Asmara was a hit on you. We wanted to disguise it by wiping out your whole unit."

"We? We who?"

"Oh, take a fucking guess!" Defiant to the end. If Rawlins was destined to spill his guts, he was going to make it difficult as hell for his aggressor.

"Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck."

"Bravo, good guess."

"And how'd he make you turn traitor."

"By offering me a shitload of money and a position in his firm! He wanted you dead and I hated your guts. You were always the boy scout who got every fucking commendation under the sun." Rawlins remained unrepentant, despite the pain from the gunshot wound which Arnold saw was starting to manifest in his facial expressions. "Any more questions?"

"And how's Vasquez fit into this?"

"Vasquez? Never heard of him!"

Another gunshot placed a bullet on the floor, inches from Rawlins's cheek, and suddenly he looked like he was reconsidering his hard-ass front because Arnold wasn't buying it.

"OK, OK! He's Scheck's new golden boy! Sort of like a consultant for this operation. He's the one who suggested how to draw you out."

_Hence the taunting phone call! The cracks about my family and Helga!_

"Did he suggest destroying the headstones?"

"Oh yes, he did! Worked like a charm, don't you think?" The mockery had returned to his voice as if to suggest that for all his capabilities, Arnold was easy to manipulate. "Too bad you never were a team player. Never dying when you were supposed to!"

"Phoebe, did you get that?" Arnold gave attention to his earpiece.

"Every word in crystal clear quality," came the reply. "Saved for posterity."

Arnold allowed himself the briefest moment of frivolity: "Have I ever told you how awesome you are?"

"Careful, Lieutenant!" Rawlins interjected. "Sounds like you've got it bad for this…Phoebe, is it? Phoebe Heyerdahl, the ace journalist?" He was now addressing the voice coming from Arnold's earpiece. "Hey, Missy! I think we all know what happens to any woman he starts getting the hots for. What's to say you won't be next to meet an untimely fate?"

That utterance angered Arnold. "Yeah well, you'll never get to find out," he said in a calm tone that elevated his internal wrath. He walked over to the sledgehammer, place the rifle beside it before appropriating the wrecking tool while disregarding the still-searing pain in his left arm.

"Shortman, what the fuck are you doing?" Rawlins asked with impotent anger which quickly turned to mortal dread as Arnold approached him, hammer in hand. "Lieutenant, wait! I answered all your fucking questions! I fucking co-operated!"

"You sold out your country just to get at me and my comrades. You threatened someone I've come to care about very deeply. You attacked my family. You attacked the girl I once loved." Arnold now stood over Rawlins, poised to strike.

"Those were all Scheck and Vasquez! _All_ them! _They_ came up with that idea!"

"Which you executed." Arnold remained expressionless as he raised the hammer and brought the head down hard on Rawlins's skull.

* * *

From the earpiece, he heard: "Oh my god, Arnold! What have you done?"

"I sent a message." His calm voice would have unnerved any witnesses to this, his most recent action. He stood over the now lifeless Charles Rawlins, appraising his handiwork with cold detachment.

Phoebe's voice now bordered on hysteria: "Arnold! You've sunk to their level! We were supposed to battle these people within the confines of the law! Did you understand that, Arnold? _Did you_? _Within_ the law!"

"No, _you_ didn't understand!" A note of irritability now colored Arnold's detached demeanor. "What did I tell you during our trip? Truth and justice aren't enough for these guys. Sometimes you _have_ to sink to their level."

"That's bullshit! Grade-A bullshit, Arnold! You killed tonight, not because you had to, but because you _wanted_ to! Right now I don't think you're any better than them! To hell with your military training and conditioning!"

Arnold felt his irritation regress to abject ire. "What do _you_ know?" he raged back. "_You_ try being sent to a warzone because limp-dick pencil pushers like Rawlins over here think – _think_ – that there _might_ be a threat somewhere there worth sacrificing your life to take down. _You_ try being pinned down by enemy fire – guns, tanks, heavy fucking artillery – and then expected to fight your way out, _whatever it takes_!"

There was now a definite tremble in her voice: "Arnold, you're frightening me again."

"Sorry you feel that way," Arnold's tone was unchanged. "But for those I love and care about – those I think make my life worth living – I'm willing to go to any extreme, law or no law!"

"L-Love..?" she asked in a voice now beset by bafflement.

"You heard me! I was just now reminded how life as I know it is far too short not to say what must be said. I love you, Phoebe! I know it's been only two and a bit days since we met. But Rawlins was right: I got it bad for you." His voice had calmed down at this point and he waited for Phoebe's response.

"Arnold, I don't know…"

"Phoebe, wait a minute!" He cut her off curtly. Her reply had been interrupted by a ringing phone, Rawlins's phone which Arnold retrieved from the dead man's pocket. The caller ID read: 'Scheck'.

"It's Scheck calling. Phoebe, get ready to record again."

A pause, a heavy sigh, then an acknowledgment dripping with displeasure: "Ready."

He accepted the call. Before he could get a word out: "Rawlins, what's the progress report?" It was Scheck: brief and to the point as always.

"Rawlins can't come to the phone right now. He's indisposed for the rest of his life."

"And who, may I ask, is this?"

"Take one fucking guess, Alphonse!"

"Arnold?" Then the recognition fully set in: "Hey Arnold! I can't exactly say I'm happy to hear your voice, but anyway…how are you?"

"A whole lot better than the men you sent after me."

"Son, I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

"Your man Rawlins did! He told me a lot. About Asmara. About the trap you set tonight. It failed by the way. I'm now at your men's base. Who knows what evidence I'll discover here?"

Arnold was surprised when Scheck sounded unperturbed at this revelation. Instead, the old man kept the conversation going as if what Arnold had just told him was a nonentity. "That's such a pity, Arnold. Did you know that tonight's task was worth a total of three million dollars? That's how much I value your life, Arnold. Three million dollars, American. Rawlins and the men were due to receive their reward upon completion, at your very location. Perhaps I can offer their reward to you instead?"

Arnold wanted to tell Scheck off, but his adversary ended the call. Arnold was left confused.

_Why'd he end the call so suddenly? What did he mean by 'reward'? _Then it suddenly made chilling sense._ Oh shit!_

Arnold turned towards and sprinted for the fire escape at world-record pace. He leaped through the open window and onto the steel structure. He was halfway down the first flight of steps when the top floor exploded.

What followed was a jumble of movement and mostly pain-related sensations.

Of the rickety fire escape being rocked by the explosion. Of the explosion's concussive force flinging him over the railing. Of him falling two stories to the unyielding ground below. Of the ground and the sky frequently changing positions. Of him no longer knowing where was up and where was down.

"_Arnold, what's going on? What happened?_"

Of hearing Phoebe's voice fraught with panic and despair. Of wanting so badly to reply but being rendered painfully incapable. Of being unaware of the passage of time.

"_ARNOLD! ARNOLD!_"

Of wanting to tell her he'd survived.

Of hearing approaching sirens in the distance. Of resigning himself that there was no longer an escape and that he had failed.

"There he is! Come on, let's get him out of here!"

An elderly voice coming from inside the alley. A strong figure picking him up and carrying him to god knows where. Being placed in the back seat of a car.

The elderly voice issuing an order: "Drive!"

_If they wanted me dead, they'd have killed me in the alley_. That was his rationale as he allowed the lights and the sound to be switched off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: So this was my take on the mythical Dark Arnold. I've encountered different iterations of him and - with no disrespect intended to anyone whatsoever - I decided to go with a version that didn't sound like he belonged in an episode of SVU.
> 
> Author's Note #2: Not surprisingly, my biggest reference for the cemetery layout was the episode, 'Ghost Bride'. The only clue provided in the episode for the surrounding area was a brief reverse-angle shot of Curly which shows what looks like a boarding house in the far background. I latched on to that observation and then applied it to the entire surrounding neighborhood.
> 
> Author's Note #3: My one parameter for the action scenes is not to turn Arnold into a force of nature. He may be highly skilled, but he is still prone to mistakes, misjudgments, and underestimations. I believe it makes for a more vulnerable who isn't boringly - to quote Phoebe - 'insuperable'.
> 
> Author's Note #4: I don't particularly like action movies with rapid cuts and editing that actually detract from the action scenes. I like my takes long, continuous and flowing. Think Hard Boiled, Project A, or The Raid. I was hoping to convey a continuity similar to what those movies conveyed with their action scenes.
> 
> Author's Note #5: The songs from Spotify that helped shape this chapter  
Last Night on Earth (Nigel Stanford Remix) - Celldweller  
In the Air Tonight - Nonpoint  
Streets on Fire - Lupe Fiasco  
Wouldn't It Be Good - Nik Kershaw  
I Have The Touch - Peter Gabriel  
End of Line - Daft Punk


	14. Brownian Motion and the Human Condition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Arnold takes Vasquez's bait, but he has some tricks of his own for his attackers. Arnold settles a score going back to his days in Eritrea. An explosion leads to radio silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

"And you're telling me that all the switchboards and the entire network, they just _happened_ to be out of commission, _exactly_ when World War III plays out over here?"

It was all an act, of course. Detective Mark Vasquez was fully aware of the order that had come directly from the Commissioner to shut down and test the Hillwood PD's entire communications network under the pretext of testing for suspected bugs and viruses, an order that won him no fans, but which nevertheless had to be followed. The Commissioner had received his orders directly from Scheck, and in implementing the shutdown had bought Arnold Shortman's hit team a one-hour window to do their job.

"Sorry, Sir, but that's what happened, like it or not," replied the uniform maintaining the perimeter around the cemetery.

Detective Vasquez was led towards the carnage. There, he saw a junior detective consulting with the coroners and CSU techs at work amongst the bodies, the spent casings and the bullet-damaged headstones. They were processing and murmuring, calculating and conjugating, seemingly oblivious to his presence, continuing undisturbed as they examined the scene.

Wait, back up a minute! _Another detective?_

The presence of another detective at the scene was serious grounds for concern. The hero detective was supposed to swoop in on the scene and instantly solve this case with elegance and panache. Scheck had even arranged for a press briefing in which Detective Mark Vasquez would be authorized to divulge certain cherrypicked details of the investigation. "To send the mindless rabble chasing each other's tails as well as their own", as the old man had described it.

So what the fuck was this asshole doing here?

"Detective Vasquez?"

The voice snapped Detective Mark Vasquez out of his cogitation so that he saw the other detective's outstretched hand. He grudgingly accepted the gesture and shook the hand.

"Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater, from Precinct 2," the detective introduced himself. "I was a mile or two out having a slice when the call came in. Never knew I'd get to work with the legend of Hillwood PD!"

_Christ All-fucking-mighty!_ Vasquez's thoughts were of thermonuclear anger. _A fucking bright-eyed fanboy got here first!_

Vasquez maintained his calm demeanor as he replied: "Pleased to meet you, Drinkwater. Looks like we're stuck with each other on this one."

To the rest of the gathered crew, he said in a voice he hoped would convey a bit of irreverence: "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Looks like we'll be earning our overtime tonight! What do we know so far..?"

* * *

_Hindsight is always 20/20._

Knowing the meaning of the saying, its origin and how it applied to her at this exact moment, all of it presented absolutely zero comforts for her. She'd been mentally playing and replaying those final moments of their last communication.

The deafening bangs.

The sounds of many impacts.

Inarticulate sounds expressing pain.

Then…static.

No more communication. Only…uncertainty.

Did he survive? Did he perish? _Oh god, please let him be alive!_

In hindsight, maybe Phoebe should have engaged Arnold more readily and with less stammering when he let it slip that he loved her. She _did_ have a response for him: she was falling as hard for him as he confessed he was falling for her. His violent tendencies had come to the fore at the time, but upon reflection, she realized that none of his anger or frustrations had ever been aimed directly at her. Yes, he'd gotten testy with her, raised his voice at her and endured a few arguments with her. But he'd never threatened her with violence; in fact, he was making good of his promise to prioritize her safety over everything else. He may have been a product and a victim of his circumstances, but to her – as was always the case with all his loved ones – he was kind, loving and fiercely loyal.

Inevitably, she also (blushingly) recalled his lovemaking skills which earlier that evening had emphasized his torridity, longevity, and intimacy.

_Hindsight is a bitch._

How badly she wanted the chance to tell him that what they shared was love, not mere sex.

But first, she needed confirmation of his survival. The news outlets had latched onto the recent events and Phoebe had been following every new story, every new tidbit, fervently.

Nothing so far. At least, nothing she didn't already know. Lots of gunmen. Lots of bullets. An explosion nearby.

The reporters, anchors, bloggers, not to mention the countless Redditors, were all ablaze as they offered their hypotheses: gang warfare seemed to be the most accepted supposition, especially in the wake of Vitaly Santalov's demise.

Two hours of opinions, speculation and not enough solid facts later – during which she had also successfully retrieved the drone and backed up Arnold's recorded conversations – Phoebe Heyerdahl was about to succumb to the day's fatigue, and so she retired on the couch in the lounge while leaving the TV to cycle through the news.

Then something appeared. She saw him in the background on the broadcast.

Not Arnold. No, him.

_Him_.

_Mark_.

Mark Vasquez was being allowed into the cemetery by a uniformed officer. Phoebe's fatigue suddenly dissolved as she sprang to her feet; there was new work to be done.

She needed to change into a more professional ensemble, quickly. She did.

She needed to be strongly caffeinated to preserve her wits. She soon was.

She needed to depart speedily. She was gone.

* * *

"Drinkwater, are you saying this wasn't a gang war?" Detective Mark Vasquez asked the Junior Detective, whom he knew was smelling a potential commendation with this case. "Look at this advanced weaponry. Heckler & Koch G36's, brand new by the looks of it. All set to Full-Auto and with mags to spare. They didn't come here to save their ammo. They came to face multiple enemies."

Detective Vasquez was rattled that Arnold Shortman was not among the stiffs being examined. Had the footballhead – as Helga frequently referred to him – been among the dearly departed, the story would have been a tragic case of some poor sentimental bastard coming late at night to mourn his long-dead childhood friend only to stumble in on a gang meeting. But that wasn't the case, so he was now forced to sell this show as a gang war without the collateral damage.

"That's exactly as it appears, Sir," Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater replied before launching into a litany of his observations. "If this was warfare, then you'd expect the directionality of their gunfire to be all over the place. But look at this." He pointed at the pockmarked area surrounding the stone of Cynthia Snell – which miraculously had emerged unscathed for all the gunfire that had taken place. "The gunfire was concentrated just around this specific area, meaning they were after just one target."

_Shit_, thought Detective Vasquez. Of all the other detectives, he had to get Drinkwater, the young fucking up-and-comer who looked like a fresh-out-of-college Judge Reinhold. He was bright, astute and at least as intelligent as Vasquez, but he had one telling flaw: he believed in truth and justice and as such was eager to solve this case truthfully. He also happened to be closer to the scene when the call came out.

"And over there too, Sir," Drinkwater continued as he pointed towards a granite monolith that displayed the brunt of another constant stream of bullets. "You've got a similar concentration of gunfire over there. They were targeting someone specific. This was supposed to be a hit."

The junior detective then led his senior counterpart to the monolith, where he showed and explained the similar concentrated pattern. Detective Vasquez wasn't particularly interested in what Drinkwater had to say, so he occupied himself with the inscription on the monolith.

_Holy shit! What were the odds?_

Inscribed was the name of the PS118 students who perished during the Sunset Arms incident!

> **Eugene Horowitz**
> 
> **Gerald Johannsen**
> 
> **Harold Berman**
> 
> **Nadine**…someone or other; bullet impacts had made her surname illegible.
> 
> **Rhonda Wellington Lloyd**
> 
> **Sid**…same for him; concentrated bullet strikes had also erased his surname.
> 
> **Stinky Peterson**…was that _really_ his name?
> 
> **Thaddeus Gammelthorpe**

This was their memorial. This was where Shortman hid from his attackers. Shit, even in death his friends were looking out for him.

Drinkwater's incessant droning eventually snapped Vasquez back to the present.

_Damn that Drinkwater!_ This was not going according to plan. Still, he had to try and poke holes in the Junior Detective's story: "Two targeted areas. But didn't you say there was _one_ intended target?"

"There was, Sir," Drinkwater replied, "only…look at this." He motioned for a tech to bring over a bagged piece of evidence which he presented to Vasquez.

"Cute," Vasquez observed. "What is it?" It looked like the charred remains of a plastic cigarette box.

"It's a simulator. We found it stashed near Cynthia Snell over there. It's meant to simulate gunfire as a distraction. You know, like the one De Niro used in 'Ronin'. It drew the attackers' attention away from their target. Meanwhile, our guy is hiding behind the monolith over here. He uses their distraction to pick them off. We got several stiffs here with entry wounds in the back. They were all shot with a .45, judging by the casings we found that weren't .223."

Drinkwater then extolled the superior battlefield nous of the target, what with his use of a flashbang – the remnants of which had also been bagged – and how he was able to counter a six-man pincer movement.

"Sounds a bit much for just one man," Vasquez feigned doubtfulness.

"Not if he's ex-military. Marine Corps. Rangers. SEALs. Top tier, best of the best." And before Vasquez could question that conclusion, Drinkwater answered: "His shot placement…he only targeted the vital areas. Centre mass, vital organs, heart, and head. One guy even copped one in the trachea. That's _high_-level military-grade shooting. He knew how to pick his shots."

_Fuck_, Vasquez cursed internally. At Drinkwater for beating him to the scene. At Shortman for not following the fucking script and dying.

"One thing I can say with certainty, Detective Vasquez," Drinkwater concluded. "Someone was meant to die over here and die horribly. Someone was lured to this location. Someone knew it was a trap, and so came prepared."

_Damn that Drinkwater!_

_And fuck you, Shortman!_

* * *

"…Information is still scarce at this point, four hours after police investigators arrived at the scene. What we've been hearing thus far paints a grim picture of Hillwood's fight against organized crime in particular. What you're about to hear is the result of hearsay, overheard as a result of the investigators themselves talking amongst each other as they passed us. As such, the information is still subject to fact-checking. The dialogues suggest a death toll of fifteen, although this figure is yet to be confirmed. Allegations have also been made of the deceased all being mercenaries with military backgrounds. Even more incredibly, further allegations have arisen which suggests that only one man may have been responsible for the deaths in the cemetery tonight. We'll be sure to follow up thoroughly on all the available leads and allegations.

In the meantime, we are still waiting for Hillwood PD to release a formal statement concerning tonight's events and provide clarity on the event that has transpired.

And with that, back to the studio…"

* * *

Big Gino was focussed on the latest newsfeed streaming on his desktop PC. The news of an almighty shootout at the cemetery and the explosion at a nearby abandoned rooming house was fuelling a buzz by the press who were seeking to link those events to Vitaly Santalov, and the supposed power void left in the wake of his death the previous day. Some of the more sensationalist outlets were already bandying phrases such as 'power grab' and 'power vacuum'. Gino knew that all their speculation was bullshit. _What were the fucking odds_, he ruefully postulated. _The boy scout comes back home with Scheck on the brain, and on the same day, unholy hell breaks loose with a team of hired killers in the cemetery._

He decided to give the news a rest and turned his attention to Myron, who was being his cordial best on the phone. Despite not being able to hear the other side of the conversation, he got the feeling that his bodyguard and confidante was gaining the advantage.

"No, Madam Councillor, you misunderstand our intentions," Myron explained over the burner phone, one of several at his disposal. The rest were laid on the desk that was now his base of operation. "My employer's goal is not to threaten you. On the contrary, he sees a chance for you to continue prospering in your most esteemed career…Well, consider the financial and reputational damage you'll suffer if any word were to get out that you are in league with a domestic terrorist…That's right, domestic terrorism…Sunset Arms, seventeen years ago…Well, new evidence calls that notion into question. New, verifiable evidence, currently in our possession…Yes indeed, the monthly payments you received are drawn from the proceeds of terrorism that can be traced back to that event…Our terms? You forego any future involvement with your current benefactor, including all financial considerations. In exchange, we see to it that no harm comes to your employment or your pension. Plus, I guarantee that our requests will be infinitely more reasonable…Thank you very much, Madam Councillor, for your gracious co-operation."

When Myron ended the call, Big Gino immediately pounced. "So how'd that one go, Myron?"

"Very well, Sir," replied the living paradox that was Myron: a well-educated, 6'10", muscled brute of a man who spoke the most eloquent, highest-level English in an accent that sounded like a cross between New Jersey and Beantown.

"Good, that's the first one we've been able to turn over to our side. I'd call it a good start. Looks like our friends Arnold and that Heyerdahl girl delivered us some righteous intel."

* * *

The flophouse was their next destination.

Unlike the cemetery, this location didn't offer much in the way of physical evidence. It wouldn't offer anything at all until the Fire Marshall gave investigators the go-ahead to enter the premises. The structure was still standing even if it was missing most of the third floor, which was where the investigators needed to be pending the necessary approval.

In the meantime, Detectives Vasquez and Drinkwater found themselves, at the latter's behest, investigating the alleyways surrounding the building. All were strewn with debris from the explosion: bits of wood, jagged metal and masonry were the order of the day.

"Look! Look!" proclaimed an overly eager Drinkwater as he pointed at a badly indented dumpster situated next to a fire escape.

"Drinkwater, it's a dumpster," Vasquez couldn't muster any enthusiasm. "Damaged by high-velocity falling bricks."

"No, Sir! Look more closely!"

Vasquez did so, and he had to concede: _The little prick is right! _The jagged notches were spread in and around a single, larger and smoother dent on the top of the dumpster.

Drinkwater wasted no time as he theorized: "Looks like someone was on the top floor when all of this went down. He figures the place is about to blow then hauls ass for the fire escape."

_This isn't happening_, Detective Mark Vasquez cursed to himself in denial.

"Only…" the junior detective continued. "…he's not quite fast enough. I mean he _makes_ it to the fire escape, but the concussive force from the blast sends him flying over the railing. Maybe he slams against the opposite wall, which slows down his descent. Enough so that when he hits the dumpster and it caves in, it's enough to break his fall so that the impact isn't fatal."

"Hence, no body," concluded Detective Vasquez while pretending to be interested.

"Exactly!" Drinkwater sounded giddy in his declaration. "I won't call our man a suspect yet, but he's definitely a person of interest and if we find him and question him, then at the very least he can shed light on this giant clusterfuck!"

'Clusterfuck' was the operative word. _If he finds Shortman and takes a statement from him…_

While Vasquez was cursing this less-than-desirable outcome of his and Scheck's scheme, Drinkwater had turned to leave the alley. Drinkwater strolled carefully out towards the exit of the alley, but his body language suggested that his commendation for this high-profile case was already a done deal. At that point, Detective Mark Vasquez's detection skills came into play. He suddenly noticed how, despite both the buildings on either side of the alley being abandoned, several air-conditioning units remained on the walls. He noticed how one particular unit was holding on by the flimsiest of metaphorical metallic threads, all but one of its mountings having been devoured by corrosion and left especially weakened and vulnerable by the neighboring explosion's shockwave. He noticed how Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater was about to walk directly underneath the unit.

_It should be easy for a thrown brick to dislodge it_, he thought.

He then noticed how the brick he had thrown traveled in a perfect trajectory before striking and dislodging the last remaining mounting. He watched, as the air-conditioning unit submitted itself to Newton's First Law and let gravity guide its course to the ground. He watched, as Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater stirred at the impact before looking up just in time to see the unit mere inches above him. He watched, as the unit came crashing on Drinkwater's head, driving him flat on his back on the ground where it summarily crushed his skull, killing him instantly.

"Oh shit! DRINKWATER! _DRINKWATER! FUCK!_" Detective Vasquez screamed a full lung capacity, making sure his colleagues and the assembled press could hear him. "OFFICER DOWN! _OFFICER DOWN!_"

He watched, as firefighters and other investigators came running to his screams.

He thought: _You were just too goddamn clever to live…_

* * *

The uncertainty was fast becoming tedious. Scratch that: it had become tedious a long time ago.

The life of the cop's wife.

Of course she loved him. Profoundly so. Physically, emotionally and spiritually. She just abhorred the notion that she was forced to share her husband with the criminal element of Hillwood, especially when none of the latter where particularly inclined to return him to her.

Olga Pataki-Vasquez was losing all sense of time and space behind the keys of her piano when Mark had called that he was responding to another high-profile multiple-homicide, this time at the cemetery and - surprise, surprise - that she need not wait for him. Murder at the cemetery? _Death of irony right there_, as she recalled his favored expression.

Since his call, she'd spent hours trying to lose herself in the more complex piano pieces. The more complex, the more discordant, the better, for whether she knew it or not, she was seeking music that mirrored her current tumultuous state of mind. She was finding particular solace in _Concert Etude op.40 no.3 "Toccatina"_ by Nikolai Kapustin, it's fast-paced, seemingly random chord progression forcing her to focus on anything other than what was currently vexing her.

Her husband.

His dedication to his job, now becoming a distraction?

More cases, less time with her, more secrets.

Enough! She couldn't stand the uncertainty a minute longer! The music was no longer doing anything to her state of mind. She stopped; she had to know. Was there a multiple-homicide tonight. The news channel confirmed that there was: fifteen dead in the cemetery plus one other in a nearby explosion that may or may not have been a related incident. Speculation was rife in the absence of any concrete facts. Then the news anchor announced: "We've received word that Hillwood PD is about to issue a formal statement regarding this incident. We cross over live from the location."

The picture changed to one of a makeshift podium adorned with microphones from different stations, somewhere near the cemetery. Olga watched as Mark came into view…wait, was he delivering the statement?

"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your patience. It's been a long time coming, but I am Detective Vasquez of the Hillwood Police Department and I've been authorized to brief you about certain aspects of Hillwood PD's investigation of the heinous crime committed at this location some eight hours ago."

It made sense, or so Olga reckoned. Mark was the face of Hillwood PD, a figurehead for its fight against crime.

"Approximately eight hours ago, a group of fifteen heavily armed individuals entered the cemetery's premises. We established this through surveillance footage courtesy of the Hillwood's surveillance network."

Olga could only smile in admiration of his eloquent delivery.

"Further evidence suggests that they were lured here by an individual who had set a trap for them. The group was subsequently ambushed by said individual and shot dead."

Olga's distrust of that statement was echoed by the collective gasps of the gathered reporters.

"We are currently treating this as an act of vigilantism as all the deceased – or at least those that have already been positively identified – are known criminal figures with some or other military background and histories of extreme violence. Regardless, Hillwood PD fully intends to pursue and apprehend the perpetrator, and punish him – or her – to the law's fullest extent."

A question from within the press corps: "Detective, are you seriously suggesting that one person gunned down fifteen heavily armed attackers?"

"I am merely relaying to you what the evidence we've processed thus far suggests. Unfortunately, due to the ongoing nature of this case, I am unable to divulge specifics of the evidence in case the matter does go to trial."

Damn, he was good! He could be quite the charmer when the situation demanded.

Another question from within the masses: "Detective, are you treating the nearby explosion as a separate incident, or is it related to the shootings that occurred here?"

"The short answer is: we don't know yet. We've been unable to process the scene due to the Fire Marshall not declaring it safe yet. On that note, I would also like us to remember Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater, who was tragically killed in a freak accident during this investigation. In fact, much of what I'm telling you comes off his sterling detective work and his death is a heartrending loss for Hillwood PD."

Mark Vasquez: a case study of how to work a crowd's emotion. Olga was in awe at how he had the reporters hanging on to his words.

"Detective, does this mean you had arrived at a different conclusion to that of your…shall we say 'partner'?"

That one question changed the atmosphere radically. Silence descended suddenly. Mark's expression changed to one of displeasure, as if he was deeply, personally vexed either by the question itself or by whoever had asked it. A woman…with a vaguely, distantly familiar tonality. Olga watched Mark rein in his nerves and address the question.

"Why, Miss Heyerdahl! Of course, I should have expected someone as intrepid as you to grace us with your presence…"

_Heyerdahl? Of course!_

Olga's ear for music and voices and relative timbres finally had its catalyst. That was Phoebe Heyerdahl asking the question! Olga remembered her dead sister's childhood best friend quite vividly. She also had some imprecise recollections of stories she'd read which were written by Phoebe the reporter.

"…As for your question…yes, I was under the initial impression that this event was an instance of gang warfare, given the volatility following the death of Vitaly Santalov. Detective Drinkwater proved my hypothesis incorrect through solid evidence and his equally solid detection skills."

"And was the late Detective Drinkwater able to point out any characteristics of a potential suspect?"

Olga noticed as a smirk briefly appeared on her husband's visage. "Only that the suspect might be a highly trained, former military operative with, to quote Detective Drinkwater, 'superior battlefield nous'. As such the suspect will be considered armed and extremely dangerous." He paused for a moment, before continuing: "Plus, if we establish that the death of Detective Drinkwater was, in fact, an indirect result of our unknown suspect's premeditated actions, then the suspect would acquire an additional charge of Felony Murder of an on-duty police officer. And since the moratorium on capital punishment in the state of Washington was lifted, the suspect would face the death penalty if prosecuted. And so for that matter, would any accomplices."

Something about that second bit didn't sit easily with Olga. His tone and expression – that brief smirk in particular. The fact that he seemed to relish informing Phoebe – and _only_ Phoebe – of that fact. It all hinted at an element of malicious pointedness.

The same could be said about Phoebe's follow-up question, asked in a calm, unperturbed manner. "But Detective, how sure are you of Hillwood Police Department's ability to handle such a…supposed…violent criminal? Recent articles have highlighted the brazen nature of Hillwood's underworld. The most recent example that comes to mind is the murder of your late partner, Detective Joseph Banks, whose badge was found in the possession of an assassination team in…"

_Excuse me? What town did she mention?_

Olga recognized it as the town Mark had told her on Sunday that whatever task force he was coordinating would be visiting to arrest a double-homicide suspect. _That_ case, the outcome of which he never mentioned to her.

As she continued watching, she noticed a few tics on Mark's face – an indication that he was scrambling for a credible answer – before he replied. "I was under the impression that that particular case was closed. The perpetrator was part of that aforementioned squad that was gunned down in…"

_That town again! What the hell is going on? What doesn't he want to tell me?_

"But that was outside of your jurisdiction," the voice of Phoebe Heyerdahl persisted. "Could you, hand on heart, tell us that you have crime in Hillwood under control? Could you honestly give that reassurance to Hillwood's citizens? To your family and loved ones. To your _wife_?"

Olga Pataki-Vasquez watched as her husband's cheeks became flushed as an angry expression threatened his theretofore calm and collectedness. "Sorry folks, no more questions!" he said abruptly as he stormed off the podium, presumably to continue his investigation.

But the doubts and questions remained in her mind.

That Podunk town: what happened there that Mark was so reluctant – if not outright unwilling – to disclose to her? Why did Phoebe Heyerdahl bring up the matter of Mark's partner, Joey? Was she suggesting that Mark had some hand in the death of his best friend? And why did she place particular stress on 'wife' in her last question? For that matter, why did it cause Mark to end the briefing? He could have easily brushed off any question of such a personal nature.

_God, I need answers._

So she retrieved her tablet and began a Google search: her search topic specified recent crimes in that rural town. The results were sparse, directing her to the website of that town's newspaper, to an article dated Monday. Olga read of a home invasion attempt that was successfully repelled during which eleven attackers were fatally shot and a twelfth subdued. The occupants of the home: Arnold Shortman, a military veteran; Phoebe Heyerdahl a houseguest of the former. The killings were deemed justifiable homicide and no charges were filed.

_Arnold!_

She felt the acrimony rise within her as she recalled how that bastard cost her the happiness and stability she so carefully cultivated within her family all those years back. The stability that she was now slowly and painstakingly rebuilding. And what was Phoebe's role in this matter? Was it mere coincidence that she was with Arnold on that day?

A follow-up article, dated the same day, reported on how one of the attackers had presented himself as Joseph Banks, complete with the actual badge belonging to 'the deceased Hillwood detective whose badge was not found on his person following his untimely shooting in Hillwood'.

Dated the next day was another article highlighting the fatal shooting of the twelfth member of the group, one Yuri Denkova, in a failed escape bid during which he expressed a deep fear of being marked for death once he was in Hillwood PD custody.

But no mention whatsoever of a female multiple-murder suspect taking refuge in that town. Nothing on her arrest nor her extradition. Nothing on those days, nor today. It felt like there was no suspect at all.

_Did Mark lie to me?_

_Why?_

_Why did that man have Joey's badge?_

_And how are Phoebe and that fucking Arnold involved?_

The more she ran those questions through her mind, the more she dreaded what the answers would be.

* * *

So far they had a police captain on board, together with a judge, a medical examiner in addition to the Councillor they initially acquired. The flash drive which the boy scout and the reporter had given him, was a veritable goldmine. As Gino had anticipated, some of the respondents had unequivocally told him and Myron to go fuck themselves – and their mothers too, for good measure – though he was confident in getting them to see his way. He expressed as much to the bodyguard.

"But Sir, we presented compelling evidence to them and all they did was scoff at us," bemoaned Myron.

Gino didn't answer the question immediately. Instead, he was considering, collating and interpreting the events described in the latest news reports. His thoughts were particularly on that press release in which he had taken sadistic delight in hearing how the reporter busted the golden-boy detective's balls on live TV.

His mind was computing the salient data.

_Fifteen dead._

_One man responsible._

_The kind of man, maybe, who could walk into my office, unarmed, and call me a piece of shit in front of my armed bodyguards without flinching._

_It's gotta be him..._

_And it doesn't sound like he's dead yet. Maybe…_

After the contemplation, Gino advised: "Give it some time, twenty-four hours maybe, forty-eight, tops. Then call again and tell them that they no longer have a boss, but we still have our evidence against them."

"On what grounds, may I ask?" returned a doubtful Myron.

"On the grounds that I think the boy scout is about to do us the biggest fucking favor we never asked for."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Welcome to the second chapter in which Arnold doesn't make an appearance but is instead referenced. I needed, firstly, to remind myself that Phoebe's profession is no Macguffin and that it must have a sustained, intrinsic bearing on the story. Secondly, I'm taking the opportunity to set up Olga for a more pivotal role.
> 
> Author's Note #2: Speaking of Olga, I've always regarded her as a highly intelligent person severely lacking in Emotional Intelligence. I've never thought of her as a bad person, just someone unable to adapt to any adverse changes in her life.
> 
> Author's Note #3: I got the surname Drinkwater from Danny Drinkwater, a Chelsea Football Club player. He was still playing for Leicester City F.C. when I first heard of him and I distinctly remember thinking: "Now that's a cool name to have."
> 
> Author's Note #4: Brownian Motion refers to random movements and collisions of particles suspended in a liquid. I believe what we encountered here was a seemingly random collection of events colliding with profound implications, hence the title reference.
> 
> Author's Note #5: Similarly, Newton's First Law states that any object will continue in its state of rest or uniform motion unless acted on by a net resultant force. This I learned way back in Grade 10 Science, in a section called (perhaps unfortunately) "Falling Bodies".
> 
> And here's the Spotify list that most influenced the writing of this chapter:  
John Crow - Jimmy Cliff  
Brothers on the Slide - Cymande  
Young Disciples Theme - Young Disciples  
True Faith - New Order  
Swashbucklin' in Brooklyn - Fun Lovin' Criminals


	15. That Which Keeps Us Going

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Following the events at the cemetery and flophouse, Vasquez is preparing a lethal injection with Arnold's name on it. Phoebe intervenes and foils him. But where is Arnold?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

That humming sounded familiar.

Arnold had no idea where he was. Wherever he was, he was lying on his back with his head rested in someone's lap. Someone who was humming Handel's _The Bridal March_ in a tone that was sort of creepy. Someone who was mussing his hair as though not totally familiar with all the subtleties of intimacy.

_It can only be Helga._

He opened his eyes and, sure enough, was looking up to Helga. Helga, smiling at him with joy and melancholy.

"Hey, Footballhead," she said sweetly. "What's happened this time for you to visit me?" Her question may have suggested reproach, but her tone was sweet, forgiving and accommodating; in fact, she even placed a tender kiss on his brow.

Arnold didn't answer. Instead, he rolled his eyes to survey the surroundings, even though he knew exactly where they were: Yep, it was the departure terminal at San Lorenzo's airport, and here they were, on their usual bench as their eleven-year-old iterations. He righted himself into a seated position next to her.

And…_wow!_

There was Helga in her Ghost Bride outfit: Wedding dress, combat boots, even the eye black. She looked…how did she look? She embodied so many contrasts simultaneously: Light and Dark; Purity and Immorality; Innocence and Mischief

"Like what you see?" she asked. "Do you perhaps find me…alluring?"

"I gotta admit," he replied, knowing full well this wasn't real and so there was no point in not telling the truth, "as soon as I stopped being scared of you, you started looking kinda hot."

"Oh really?" she asked in mock surprise. She then stood and walked to stand a short distance in front of Arnold. "And how about this?" she asked as she did an elegant pirouette, causing a blinding column of light to cover her briefly. When it subsided, there she stood, now clad in the pink one-piece pajama which she wore at his fire escape after sleepwalking across town.

"So adorable," he responded.

"And this?" Another pirouette, more blinding light. Now she appeared in the red one-piece swimsuit she wore in Babewatch. "Best mouth-to-mouth, ever!" he grinned as he recalled the moment.

He saw how Helga was enjoying the fashion show. Another pirouette/light combination and suddenly Helga stood in the frilly pink bridesmaid dress from Coach Wittenberg's wedding, complete with the bridal bouquet she had caught. Suddenly her expression turned demure as she looked at him for a comment.

"Who knows what could have been?" was all he could summon.

Another flash of light and Helga was back in her most familiar pink and white ensemble, but her demure expression remained. "Look, Arnold, I know a part of you wants to stay here and explore infinity with me…but it's not your time yet…and there's someone out there who'll be crushed if you were to croak just now."

And just as he wanted to engage her in the discussion, his voice disappeared in a sudden onset of laryngitis that nullified even his loudest attempts at shouting.

"Face it, Footballhead," continued Helga, "your happiness is not here anymore. It's with Phoebe now. You love her and she loves you. Don't you two leave it too late, like you and I did."

Arnold's mute protests continued, to no avail. Helga now stood motionless, her smile under strain and threatening to crack under the weight of her melancholy.

"You're a fighter. You never give up. Not on your friends and not on life. Not like I did."

_Like she did? What does that even mean?_

A final column of pure white light blinded her from him, and next he knew he woke with a start, to an immediate stabbing sensation somewhere in his ribcage. His vision was still swimming in shades of black as he struggled to focus on his bearings and surroundings.

"Oh! You're awake!" A female voice. Not Phoebe's.

"Guys, he's awake!" A female voice. Not Phoebe's. Calling to others. Probably the same people who carried him from the flophouse.

Arnold tried sitting up, only to be stopped by a pair of firm, nurturing hands. "No, Arnold. Wait! You still need to rest!" Someone who either knew him or knew _of_ him.

Whoever issued the instruction, she was now in his face. Holding his left eye open, shining a light on it. Then the right.

"Brain activity seems normal," she said to him and to her unseen companions. Gradually, her distinctive triangular face, her dark olive skin tone, her dark brown hair done in a professional-looking bob…all of those came into focus.

"Sheena?" _Where'd she come from?_

"Yes, Arnold. Me!" Her tone made it clear that she was not to be disobeyed nor disturbed in her ministrations. "Sorry for my bedside manner, but most of my usual clients don't have the luxury of time. Now, please! No unnecessary movements! Your ribs are bruised, thankfully not broken. Plus you might have a torn intercostal. Don't worry, I treated the ribs and strapped up your chest. They told me you had a really bad fall, so I checked for back injuries as well. No dislocated vertebrae, no priapism either."

"Oh…" was all a still-groggy Arnold could say. Oh god, _priapism_? At least he had to commend Sheena on her thoroughness.

"Now let's talk about the bullet graze on your left arm that I had to disinfect and dress..!" Sheena was done with the pleasantries as her voice took on a disapproving note.

"Oh come on, Sheena, give the man a break! He _was_, after all, pitched out of the third floor of an exploding building." The voice spoke as its owner entered the room.

"You mean he fell _three_ floors and he only has bruised ribs?" Sheena's look of disbelief at that revelation was one for the ages, eyes wide and mouth agape. "That can't be possible!"

Arnold was relieved by the semi-familiar new voice. "Brainy," he said wearily, "should I really be surprised that you're involved in my extraction?"

"Not just him, Son!" A third voice accompanied the two men who entered the room after Brainy: a wizened old man with thinning grey hair, and a younger, more strapping figure whom Arnold pegged as the old man's bodyguard. Arnold recognized the voice as the one giving the order to drive, so his guy must have been the one who carried him away from the building. "Like it or not, you're among friends here."

"Do I know you?" Arnold asked the old figure. "Because you talk as if I ought to."

"Let's just say, Arnold, that I'm finally making up for never paying my rent on time."

And then it clicked in Arnold's head: "Mister Smith?"

"Hey Arnold. Looks like you finally found me."

There was no time to waste on further pleasantries. A lot of explaining, a lot of note comparisons were about to take place.

* * *

She couldn't believe it: they took the bait!

It was a gamble, both personal and professional, showing herself at the briefing. But Phoebe saw no other way to remind people about certain events in Mark's past that called into question his integrity as a police detective. An anonymous online post would merely have been lost in the frenzy; a focussed statement made under focussed, far-reaching scrutiny…that could be a different matter entirely.

The murder of Joseph Banks, Mark's late partner, was a perfect starting point. Originally, it wasn't really newsworthy, only being mentioned in passing. And with the insanely quick news cycles that had become the norm, the murder was doomed to obscurity and quickly forgotten. Now, however, with Detective Mark Vasquez's star rising to its zenith, her making known a possible blemish on the man's image had the potential to start a feeding frenzy among the assembled vultures.

They did not disappoint.

She was back at the house, having slipped away from the melee that resulted after she had asked Mark _those_ questions. She recalled the rush of feet and questions towards the 'Crime Scene' barrier tape which allowed her to slip away unseen. She made it back to the house undetected, or so she hoped.

Once satisfied that she was safe, onward to the news reports and news feeds and the Redditors.

Some of the less scrupulous sites had already started publishing articles – opinion pieces, actually, which skirted the very edges of journalistic integrity – hinting at possible links to organized crime as well as possible foul play in the death of his partner. Hillwood PD had been caught napping; they did not expect the barrage of questions focussing on Detective Mark Vasquez instead of the heinous mass murder he was expected to solve. The sudden death of Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater – whom all the press pointed out just _happened_ to be assisting him at the time – did not go unnoticed either and cast further aspersions on Vasquez's public persona.

As a precaution – and to save face – the higher-ups in Law Enforcement called a hastily cobbled press conference of their own, not even two hours after their detective's PR disaster. They were all too eager to announce that Detective Mark Vasquez was being removed from the case, pending the outcome of a "full and thorough internal investigation".

_They're throwing you under the bus, Mark!_

On the one hand, Phoebe was reveling in the sadistic pleasure of seeing him suffer. On the other hand, she was relieved at buying Arnold more time to recover, wherever he was. Mark made no mention of a sixteenth body being recovered, which could only mean that Arnold was still alive.

It was daybreak on Wednesday and after the longest Tuesday of her life, Phoebe wanted nothing more than to slip into an indefinite coma. But her uncertainty over Arnold's safety still weighed heavily on her, and frequent attempts to call him only resulted in her being informed that "the person you have dialed is currently unavailable."

Just as she was running through all the possible scenarios for the umpteenth time, her phone rang to her greatest uncertainty.

'_Caller Unknown_'.

At this stage, it could only be one person. It had to be him. It _had_ to be.

"Brainy!" she bawled all too eagerly. "Tell me it's good news! Please, Brainy, tell me it's good news."

"It's good-ish news." Indeed, it was Brainy. Through working with him, Phoebe had become used to his uncanny – seemingly preternatural – ability to deliver just the right information at just the right time; she was half-expecting this phone call.

"Is he OK? That's all I want to know!" She could feel the tears forming as she spoke the words.

"He's fine, don't worry. He's still banged up from last night. Bruised ribs and a bullet graze." Brainy then heard Phoebe's gasp at that revelation before he continued: "Take it easy! I got a paramedic friend looking at him. She's taking care of him; says he just needs to rest for a bit."

_A paramedic friend? Sure, because…Brainy. Wait a minute..!_

"You mean he's with you?" Disbelief mingled with hope.

"And how did you find him? For that matter, how did you know where he'd be?" Disbelief now mingled with suspicion.

Brainy mentioned no names as he explained how Smith contacted him as soon as the social media reports reached his department of sudden police communication blackouts in several blocks, including the one containing the cemetery. He mentioned how he had informed Smith of a possible hit on Arnold, organized by Vasquez for Scheck.

"..And just how did you arrive at that conclusion?"

"I told you in the alley; I met with our detective friend at Helga's grave. He knew about Arnold and Helga. I figured he might, but he also mentioned specifics that only someone close to her could have known. Stands to reason he'd want to use his memories of her to lure him into an ambush…somewhere…the cemetery seemed like the most logical place."

Even by Brainy's standards, that was excellent reasoning.

Brainy continued about how Smith and his driver rushed to Arnold's possible location. Smith had access to his own private security detail and was ready to activate it to intervene in the attempt on Arnold's life. He wouldn't need their intervention as he and the driver arrived at the location in time to hear the explosion at the flophouse, then rushed there to find and retrieve an injured Arnold before bringing him back to Brainy's place. There they rendezvoused with Brainy and his paramedic friend – who was rather livid at being woken up at some ungodly hour for another extracurricular medical emergency.

"… don't worry, she's discreet. She won't report the bullet graze to the police."

"She sounds like a keeper," said Phoebe.

"Yeah, she's awesome," replied Brainy in a low-key voice that did little to mask his admiration of his colleague.

He continued with his debriefing, citing how Arnold's phone was terribly banged up after his plummet – "I'll give him one of my own; I've got plenty to spare." – which was why Phoebe couldn't reach him.

"One more thing, Brainy. Where are you now? Give me the address, please. I'd very much like to visit."

"Sorry, Phoebe. No can do. Too risky for you right now after your earlier stunt. You're not exactly the most popular person with the police right now," Brainy solemnly explained.

"In that case…Arnold: May I please speak to him?"

"He thought you'd never ask," replied Brainy. Phoebe then heard the phone change hands before hearing the voice she most wanted to hear.

"Phoebe? So good to hear your voice!" She swore she heard him smile!

"Arnold! Before we chew each other out for our recent gung-ho, reckless, clay-brained, boneheaded, dim-witted actions, I have this to tell you first: I love you too!"

* * *

_That bitch!_

Detective Mark Vasquez was seething with fury.

_She fucked everything up!_

He was seated in one of the interview rooms in his station, awaiting the arrival of the IAB detectives.

_Santalov was right! I should have killed her when I had the chance instead of fucking her!_

Following the disaster that was his press conference, Detective Mark Vasquez was summoned to his Captain's office. Much of what the Captain had to say was done so in anger and included such insightful statements as "_What the fuck were you thinking_", "_Why didn't you stick to the fucking script and fuck off when you were done_" and "_Of all the reporters, you let Phoebe fucking Heyerdahl herself make a complete jackass out of you_".

That last one stung particularly painfully since Phoebe's standing as an investigative reporter was second to very few, and her peers would fall over each other to investigate whatever she happened to be investigating and follow up on any hints she let slip.

_That fucking bitch! She probably planned this whole thing!_

It was all he could do to keep his mind active as he waited on the side of the desk usually reserved for suspects and persons of interest. He had to marvel at how Phoebe had gotten him off the cemetery case and into IAB's crosshairs. At how she'd taken some heat off Shortman and bought him some time to regroup. Something else that vexed at that moment: he couldn't even have someone tail her, (1) because his mind at the time was focussing on the multiple fuckups he was having to address and (2) if word were to get out of the police tailing a reporter of her standing for no apparent probable cause…

Just then, the door to the interview room swung open and in walked the Rat Squad detective, a short, balding middle-aged bureaucrat whose suit made him look more like a bitter, ineffective vice-principal than anything else. The guy from Rat Squad made a show of seating himself opposite Detective Vasquez and using his remote control to switch on the recording equipment before asking: "OK, Detective, we're ready to commence our interview. Let's start with you stating your name and rank for the record."

_She's dead_, he thought as he answered the question. _They're all dead!_

* * *

For the second time in her lifetime, Olga Pataki-Vasquez was feeling her life unravel.

Was she fated to be the universe's eternal punching bag? What was it about her that precluded her from living a happy, fulfilling life?

The news broadcasts spared no details on how her husband's rise to prominence might have been tainted. Lots of possibles, lots of might-haves, the widespread use of the word "allegedly".

None of which was new to her. She recalled how the media was interested in her for all of two hours following her father's conviction, then…welcome obscurity. This would be no different. The morning was breaking; by lunchtime some or other local politician would have said or done something idiotic, causing the vultures to chase new carrion and Mark to be all but forgotten.

Times like these made her grateful for news cycles that could be timed with stopwatches instead of calendars.

She still needed the truth from Mark.

Several truths, in fact.

Joey's murder.

The murder suspect in the hick town.

Phoebe Heyerdahl and how she so easily got under his skin.

That last one worried her more than it perhaps should have. Sure Phoebe Heyerdahl's questions to Mark during the briefing were pointed, and that could have been a hallmark of a good journalist. But…Olga's well-honed ear for voices – a benefit of her stage acting from another lifetime – had warned her that one or more aspects in their voices could have hinted at a history that was more personal than professional.

She needed answers, but she wouldn't get them now. It was daybreak and she'd been up all night following the news broadcasts. She was exhausted; she needed sleep.

One last task, though. She first instant messaged her colleagues at the library, announcing she'd be taking the day off. They'd understand.

Finally, time for some long overdue sleep! She shambled to her bedroom where she plopped onto the bed and allowed herself to be enveloped by the dark, welcoming abyss.

* * *

They were up all night, Big Gino following the news feeds while Myron pursued the potential human resources handed to them by Arnold and Phoebe. The focus of the news had changed from the actual massacre at the cemetery to how the lead detective had now been taken off the case and how the investigation may have been publicly compromised.

"That Heyerdahl chick really screwed over that detective, big time!" Gino thought out loudly, recalling how her unseen voice asked the questions that effectively derailed the case.

Myron, having taken a break from the cold calls, concurred: "Badly enough, Sir, to upset several prominent higher-ups in the process. I've noted that a large number of them are also among the names that your friends provided us." He was referring specifically to the Chief of Police, the Mayor and the District Attorney, whom his boss had watched gleefully as they called their separate press conference during the dead morning hours. He'd had a hearty chuckle at how they tripped over themselves to deliver their prepared statements of how the star detective would be removed from the case 'with immediate effect'.

Myron asked, not for the first time: "Sir, are you sure about not calling those three figures right now? Consider that they are at their most vulnerable right this moment."

"Look, Myron," replied his boss of diminutive stature. "We let them stew, we leave them alone, we let them think the shitstorm has blown over. Twenty-four, forty-eight hours, they'll have dropped their guard. _Then_ we call them and make them our offer. I'll bet you a fifty-one percent stake in my organization they'll be willing to listen."

And that's where Myron left his suggestion. Big Gino, his boss whom he respected most highly, never gambled; Big Gino won.

Big Gino finally rose to his feet and announced: "I don't know about you, but I'm off for some shuteye. I suggest you do the same. It's going to be another busy day."

* * *

"_I love you too."_

She'd done it. She'd actually done it.

_Oh my god, I said it!_

For the first time in her life, Phoebe Heyerdahl had openly professed love to someone other than her parents! Unfortunately, that was before she and Arnold severely admonished each other over their reckless actions. Fortunately, the conversation concluded with both parties expressing their relief at each other's safety and reaffirming their mutual love.

_This must be how Helga felt_, she mulled over the euphoria that speaking those words – _those words!_ – had visited upon her. Yes, he was dangerous, but…_God, that Arnold is so easy to fall in love with!_

Soon, however, she was hit full-on by the fatigue accrued over a period of time that included – but was not limited to – a seven-hour road trip, negotiating with an (alleged, of course…) underworld figure, an explosive session of – and she freely admitted it – the best sex she'd ever experienced, before providing support during a protracted gunfight. She managed to change into her sleepwear and climb into bed for some much welcome sleep. The instant her head made contact with the pillow, she was in dreamland.

Dreamland took the form of an overcrowded town square, seemingly infinite in its vastness. She was in the midst of the overcrowding: bodies passing from all directions, bumping against her, walking into her and continuing with no apology. She had no idea where to go, and one direction seemed as random a choice as any other. She walked, not knowing the where or the why. No matter the direction, it was always against the flow. The anonymous, uncaring crowd kept shoving and shunting. Eventually, her movement was a mere function of where she was shoved instead of a product of her own decisions.

Her frustration was building. She wanted to force her way through the masses, but her limbs wouldn't respond to her strong will. She'd scream, but she had no voice.

So the pushing and shoving persisted. Until…she bumped into the back of a stationary person.

A woman. No, a wind-up doll! Life-sized. Looking like…dressed like…Olga? Olga, as Phoebe had last seen in San Lorenzo.

"Olga!" was what Phoebe had wanted to exclaim, but her lack of voice made it a futile gesture.

The doll slowly turned to face Phoebe. It was uncannily modeled after Olga, but the eyes looked hollow and her smile was exaggerated enough to be miles from sincere.

"Olga? It's me! Phoebe! Phoebe Heyerdahl!" She strained, but no sound was leaving her mouth.

The doll raised her right arm… to reveal a pistol in the hand, a pistol trained on Phoebe's head.

More mute pleading followed.

"Olga, _wait_!" Phoebe wanted to scream.

"I didn't mean to…"

"It just happened, I _swear_!"

To which the doll was deaf anyway, as she pulled the trigger.

The gunshot and muzzle flash jerked Phoebe awake, and with relief, she surveyed her surroundings before concluding that she was still at the house and that her encounter had just been a dream. _But it was so vivid_, she recalled.

Olga Pataki: a semi-distant acquaintance from years ago.

Olga Pataki-Vasquez: someone whom she had – _unintendedly, dammit!_ – wronged.

She recalled Arnold's words following the encounter with Big Gino: _"…but there's still work to be done._"

Was Olga part of that unfinished business? Phoebe decided that she was and resolved to seek her out and confess her sins, come what may. But she was still too sleep-deprived to do anything meaningful. She lay down again and hoped that the next bout of sleep would be more restful.

* * *

"Arnold, what the hell possessed you to pass on such sensitive information to Big Gino of all people?"

Smith wasn't gladdened at all by Arnold's revelation that Big Gino was now in possession of Brainy's intel on Santalov's organization. Neither was Brainy.

"Arnold," an equally disturbed Brainy chimed in, "I gave Phoebe that intel to take down an organization, not put another one in power!"

Brainy and Smith were stood around Arnold, who under strict orders from Sheena was resting and as such had not moved from the spare bedroom that hours before was also Sheena's makeshift operating theatre. Going solely on the appearance of this room, Arnold gathered that Brainy lived a life that prioritized the greater good above good housekeeping. Not by much, though, as there was enough immediate evidence to suggest that the furniture was occasionally cleaned, and that laundry days and garbage pickup days were at least adhered to.

"I'm surprised you of all people need to ask that question, Mister Smith," replied Arnold. "If Scheck gets taken out suddenly, do you really think that will be the end of it? He'll leave behind a power vacuum. Who knows how many factions will go to war over his territories and operations? You've got your Aryan Brotherhoods, the Dominicans, Mexicans, not to mention the Serbian and Ukrainian Mobs. And those are the ones I can remember offhand! Can you imagine the casualties, the collateral damage of such a war?"

"And how is Big Gino's outfit any better than those guys?" Brainy remained indignant at Arnold's contention.

"Call it a hunch, but I don't get the feeling that Gino is motivated only by power and profit."

"Of course he is!" Brainy was becoming more aggravated by what he was hearing. "He wants money, he wants power. Ergo, he wants to rule! Christ, Arnold, you said so yourself in the alley: Big Gino's making a play for all of Santalov's assets! Why else would he want them if not to take over the empire?"

"Is he? Are you sure? Or have you just looked at him as another criminal dirtbag? Hell, have you _ever_ looked at his affairs, period?"

Brainy let out a stammer; Smith remained silent. Sheena stood by, struggling to keep up with the not-unfamiliar subject matter which was being discussed in detail not known to regular civilians such as herself.

"From what Phoebe has shown me on him, his tactics and acquisitions have been…interesting, to say the least."

"How's that, Arnold?" asked Smith, trying to compensate for Brainy's sudden brashness by being the adult in the room.

"He avoids conflicts with rival gangs. And when any rival member is killed and his assets and properties are seized and auctioned, Gino's the one who acquires them. Legally and through the proper channels."

"Go on," urged Smith, his interest genuinely piqued.

"Phoebe pointed out how he seems mostly interested in properties in and around our old block. Anything not located there, he flips at a profit and the money goes towards that particular neighborhood. It's like he's trying to reclaim and renovate the block, bit by bit."

Sheena quipped: "That would explain why the clinic in the area isn't falling apart, and the library is well-stocked and up to date. And the weekly soup kitchens…"

"Yes, it does make sense," Smith nodded in agreement. "If he's aiming to reclaim the neighborhood, then it would help to get the locals behind him. And from what you're telling us, everything with him seems above board."

"Bullshit!" Brainy interjected, to a dirty look from Sheena. "He's dirty like the rest of them!"

Arnold continued: "Seems like you were too focussed on Santalov to see the bigger picture. I'll bet you never knew about Scheck pulling his strings until Monday evening, did you? I'll bet you weren't even thinking what would happen after you took down either of them."

"Well…why wouldn't I?" uttered Brainy. He then pivoted: "It's not like you're the only one who suffered from what happened all those years ago! They were also _my_ friends, those who died that day! While you ran away and hid and tried to avoid dealing with the matter, I stayed here! I wanted the bastards who did this to us to see justice, and if I had to make it happen myself, then so be it!" Knowing that he had cursed again, he glanced over to a now even more censorious Sheena. Only…he wasn't feeling apologetic for his utterance, so he continued: "You, meanwhile..! Have all the enemy soldiers you've killed over the years eased your guilt over not being able to save Helga and the neighborhood?"

"Brainy..!" admonished Sheena.

"Have all the people you rescued eased the dreams and nightmares?" Brainy continued.

"Brainy, that's enough! Leave him be!" Sheena reprimanded in a sharper voice.

Smith weighed in as well: "Son, getting pissed off at Arnold won't help your cause at all."

Brainy was too focused on Arnold at the moment even to register the presence of Smith and Sheena: "How about the women you slept with? Did they give you the same sense of unconditional love you always had from Helga but were too fucking dense to realize?"

"Now you're out of line!" Smith's authoritative voice sliced through Brainy's anger and rendered him instantly speechless. And when he turned to Sheena, her look of disappointment in him was all it took for him to realize that his conduct had indeed been improper. He then turned back to Arnold and was surprised to see not anger, but sympathy and understanding in the latter's eyes.

"Brainy," Arnold said softly. "Is this what you _really_ wanted to tell me last night in the alley?"

Brainy's reaction to that question told Arnold that the answer was an unequivocal 'yes, goddammit!'

"Look, I believe you when you say you loved Helga. I even believe you when you say you accepted her decision. But the way you're making this crusade of yours all about her, that's not healthy. What we're involved in, is far bigger than just her. Look at the evidence you've gathered. Why didn't you just turn it all in yourself? With your rep and leverage, it would have been a slam dunk!"

He had Brainy on the back foot, but the latter remained steadfast: "You don't understand Arnold. I _have_ to do this for her! Only, I'm unworthy of the task. That's why I reached out to you through Phoebe because only _you_ deserve to end this madness."

At that, Arnold's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What's this about 'not being worthy' and 'deserving'?" Arnold had noticed Sheena's distaste for swearing, so he was curbing his for her sake.

"It is what it is, Arnold," was Brainy's meek attempt at an explanation.

Which neither Arnold nor anyone else in the room was accepting.

"Brainy," Sheena gently appealed to him with soulful eyes. "Is there something we should know? If so, please tell us the truth. You always looked to me like you were aching to get something off your chest. Remember the park bench? I always wondered if you were in this business by choice."

"Son," added Smith, "you don't strike me as quite the religious type, but I'm sure you know the saying about confession and the soul."

Another prod from Arnold: "Does it have to do with you surviving the blast and not Helga?"

And Brainy did something no-one besides his parents had ever witnessed him do: he started weeping. He began his tear-stained explanation: "The truth is…she's dead because of me and not Arnold!"

A collective gasp, then a pin-drop, slack-jawed, disbelieving silence.

Then from Brainy: "I killed her. Not Santalov. Not Scheck. Me. _I_ killed Helga Pataki!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: In case you haven't yet googled it, a priapism is an uncontrollable, often painful, erection of the penis. A paramedic would interpret its presence as a sign of nerve damage in the lower spine, or of damage to the lower spine itself. So yes, Sheena was indeed being thorough in her examination, much to Arnold's consternation after the fact.
> 
> Author's Note 2: If you think that Arnold and Phoebe are moving too fast in their relationship, then consider what they've faced together in the brief time in which they've been together. Then cast your mind back to the 1994 movie, "Speed", wherein at the end, Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock comment on relationships, intense experiences, and sex. And to repeat what I mentioned in a previous chapter, what's implicit in their character is how both of them as consenting adults have embraced an era of Tinder and easy hook-ups.
> 
> Author's Note #3: The section with Phoebe's dream was meant for the previous chapter to tie in further with the concept of Brownian Motion, but pacing issues saw me move it here. Who knows, maybe you read it and thought: "Aha! The writer is continuing with the Brownian Motion motif from the last chapter!"
> 
> And finally, here's the Spotify list that most influenced this chapter:  
All About Soul - Billy Joel  
People Help The People - Birdy  
Real Gone Kid - Deacon Blue  
White Flag - Dido  
Heal - Ellie Goulding  
King of New York - Fun Lovin' Criminals  
I'll Take Everything - James Blunt  
Luv (sic) Part 2 - Nujabes  
Tainted - Swing Out Sister


	16. The Dice Was Loaded From The Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Arnold is fine, thanks to friends in hidden places. Vasquez is not fine, following the fallout from Phoebe's intervention. Phoebe makes a resolute decision. And did Brainy just confess to..?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a winner, and no one would tell him otherwise.

Over fifteen years, from the comfort of his prison cell and under the radar of the SEC, he had steered FTI to its current status. The current FTI was light years removed from the realtor company it originally was. Under the guidance of an incarcerated Scheck, FTI went on an acquisition binge in a quest for portfolio diversification and risk hedging: basically, more chances to earn more money. It had expanded into communications, technology, security, and finance in addition to its original property portfolio. All portfolios were runaway successes; the bottom line was healthy, the dividends were high, and the shareholders were happy, year in and year out.

Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck thrived on adversity.

Even in a maximum-security prison, where any of his white-collar peers would have committed suicide or been raped within a week, he spent fifteen years forging partnerships and alliances with people who understood the power of green. Alliances like Santalov whom he used for property acquisitions and for keeping the local free market in check, and others for uncovering dirt on rivals, enemies and powerful potential allies.

Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was unstoppable.

So what if one snot-nosed little punk derailed his plans all those years back? Even before the attempt to buy out the neighborhood, the little shit was interfering with Scheck's plans. Gladhand was where it started. Gladhand: a councilman in Scheck's pocket, dispatched to undermine the neighborhood and make it unliveable enough to force the residents out. But that little footballheaded bastard was also there, to help a fucking butcher of all people beat Councilman Gladhand in an election, thus buying the neighborhood time from Scheck. Even when Scheck came back more aggressively…Arnold fucking Shortman was there to send him straight to jail.

Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck always got the last word, no matter what.

Ha! Some victory, when his family and girlfriend were blown to hell less than a year afterward! When word of their demises and of Shortman's life turning to shit reached Scheck in his cell, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck served the remainder of his sentence wearing the biggest goddamned smile any of the prisoners had ever seen.

But now Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a worried man.

Some key assets in the local police force had stopped returning his calls. He still had the Chief of Police, the Mayor and the DA, but they seemed too preoccupied with their own political survival to tend to him. Then there was the team of PMC's – products of FTI's foray into security – who had assured him that as good as Lieutenant Shortman was, they were better.

They weren't.

Neither was that blowhard, Rawlins. If the job had gone as planned, then following Shortman's death, the PMC's would have killed and disappeared that idiot at the base, leaving the base to be blown apart as they flew off to retirement in a non-extradition country. No body, no evidence, nothing to be traced back to Scheck or FTI. Just a tragic story of Arnold Shortman being in the wrong place at the wrong time, as sold by the superstar detective in the investigation of the matter.

That's not how events played out.

Shortman was still in the wind – no body was recovered. The superstar detective was under heavy scrutiny and off the case.

As Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck stood by the armored glass window in his now heavily guarded office, watching a new day dawn over the city of Hillwood, he had to ponder…

For the first time in his life, was he actually afraid of another man?

* * *

They were all dead. Either that or they were dying.

Seconds earlier he was spinning the decks, keeping the playlist safe and accessible for all assembled, young and old. Daft Punk's '_Get Lucky_' was going down well, so he was thinking of following it up with something equally upbeat. Maybe Jamiroquai's '_Little L_', or '_Good Times_' by CHIC, or maybe even '_Odyssey_' by Johnny Harris. Anything to keep the party mood going. Not that it mattered anymore.

"**_Funny, isn't it? The tiny little details I can clearly remember that have nothing to do with the matter…"_**

He must have been doing something right because his booth was surrounded by people falling over each other with their requested songs.

Then it happened.

An ear-piercing bang, followed immediately by a much louder one, accompanied by intense heat and force. He was leaning forward, adjusting his setlist at that very moment, which is why he survived. The people in front of him took almost all his share of the shrapnel. He watched – with no time for disbelief – as Rhonda, Nadine, Stinky and Sid were struck, scragged and flensed by shards of anything – glass, metal, brick – that was sent flying their way.

**"_Shit, Brainy! You actually saw that happen?"_**

**"_Something I'll never be able to unsee," he replied in a sorrowful tone. "They all took the shrapnel that was meant for me."_**

He then felt how the floor – indeed, the entire building – quaked beneath him, before giving way and swallowing him and everyone else, dropping them in stages and levels to the cold merciless rubble below.

After that, he was still conscious – **_"…like fate was saying 'I ain't done with you yet!'"_** – but an incessant high-pitched ringing in his ears had replaced most of his ability to hear. Not all of it, as the headphones he wore in the booth offered some protection from the boom. His senses of direction and spatial awareness were ruined, however – **_"…'up' and 'down', 'left' and 'right', they didn't exist anymore…"_**

No self-awareness either, or else he would have noticed the shard of glass protruding from his right arm and gone into shock, possibly to bleed out. He was lying on his back, atop something soft that must have broken his fall. He rolled over to look at his savior. What he saw…what he saw…

**"_Rhonda and Nadine and Curly…blood all over them…they were cut up so…so…badly…bleeding from their mouths and ears and…eyes". Brainy felt his voice falter at that recollection._**

"_AAAAARGH!_" he screamed as he frantically twisted and scrambled away from the bodies. "_AAAAARGH!_" But there was no escape. Everywhere he looked…

Harold: face down, his left arm blown almost completely off, viscera sticking out from either side.

Stinky: lying on the ground, spasming, with countless glass shards sticking out of his chest. One more spasm before vomiting blood one last time and expiring.

Sid…oh god, Sid!

"Sid_! SID!_" Sid couldn't answer; half of his face was missing, his nose was almost completely severed.

**"_Brainy, that's awful!" piped a highly empathetic Sheena. "That would have been terrible even for an experienced paramedic, let alone an eleven-year-old..!"_**

He started shambling and crawling and scrambling, in any random direction, amid this nightmare of fragmented concrete and gnarled metal and twisted bodies. Death surrounded him, though he couldn't hear anything. His brain had decided not to process what his eyes and ears were perceiving.

**"_It's like…I was seeing and hearing it all…but…my brain was arguing with my eyes and ears…telling them they were lying…"_**

No direction was a good choice. Even with severely compromised hearing, he still heard the deathly din within the ruins. He wished for deafness; it would not be a handicap. He wished as well that he could have been blind to the sights. But no…

There lay Gerald: still; pointed upwards, a pool of blood spreading from the back of his head. Having drawn his terminal breath.

Eugene, with a gaping hole where his heart once was…eyes wide open, having processed too late the mortal nature of the injury.

**"_Son, we get the point," Smith chimed in. "No need to torture yourself like this!"_**

**"_No, I have to! You need to know the whole truth!"_**

Dead or dying everywhere. Arnold's parents, grandparents. The short balding man. The Asian man. Fuck it, _all_ the tenants! His brain was working overtime to override his sight and vision, to preserve his fragile sanity.

Then…he saw…_her_.

Lying on her back on a pile of rubble, still writhing in agony.

**"_She was still alive? Brainy, WAS SHE STILL ALIVE?" a demoralized Arnold asked._**

He scrambled over to her with no regard for his own wellbeing or of his own surroundings. As he got closer, his hope peaked…then ebbed as the thin metal pole sticking out her chest came into focus.

**"_Shit, she was impaled?" Arnold asked as his disbelief pervaded throughout the room._**

He knelt over her, placed his hands carefully on her shoulders, shouting in a voice he could barely hear but hoped that she at least could: "Helga! _Helga!_ Can you hear me?" His voice matched the raggedness of his breathing.

She sputtered awake and looked at him with weak, fearful eyes. The ringing in his ears made him focus all his effort and strength into hearing her words. "Helga! Say something! _Please!_"

Helga, in as much excruciating pain as she was, was still lucid enough to recognize him. "Br-Brainy," she coughed weakly as she raised a frail left hand to his right cheek. He cupped his right hand over her left as if to offer assurance that both he and she knew were futile.

"Stay with me, Helga. Please…please!" he begged her.

"No good…not…gonna…make…it…" she coughed out.

"No…NO! Helga, _NO_!" it was all he could say as his tear ducts went into a full flood. This was the girl whom he loved more than anyone, and here he was, helpless to save her. If only…

**"_If only I had even one percent of your resourcefulness, Arnold…"_**

"Brainy…" Helga resumed her blood-slicked coughing. "Need…help…please…"

"Anything, Helga! Anything, anything, anything! _Anything!_"

She pulled his right hand away from his cheek. Then with her right hand, she motioned for his left, which he eagerly yielded. _Then_ – oh god, no, _no!_ – she was guiding them to her…to her neck, around her throat.

"Helga, I-I…I can't do this! I _won't_ do this!"

For all the pain she was projecting, she managed a weak, timorous smile. "Brainy…too much…pain. Ambulance…too…too…late. Die…own terms…own…terms. Help…"

"I…cant!" he sobbed back at her.

"Do it, Brainy…"

His sobbing intensified.

"_DO…IT!"_ Her weak voice now projected anger, as did her equally weak eyes. Just as quickly, they softened, and she said: "If…you…love me…please…free…me…"

His sobbing became a pathetic whimper as he closed his eyes, his brain barely registering his hands tightening around her neck…

** _Time seemed to stop in the room as its occupants vented their disbelief: "BRAINY! YOU DIDN'T..!"_ **

* * *

When Phoebe Heyerdahl was still actively consorting with Mark, they both agreed on not disclosing each other's addresses: communication was solely via instant messaging. No addresses, only contact numbers.

Even now, she wasn't particularly worried that Mark knew her old number. Granted, he was onto Foutley's ruse, but so what? Tracking the old phone would be fruitless, and he wouldn't be able to use the number itself to find her in Hillwood. The chief reason was that her billing address was all the way back in Seattle – _So good luck on that front, Mark!_ Furthermore, Hillwood PD was in damage-control mode following Mark's botched press release and the higher-up's subsequent clean-up attempts, so locating a singular journalist protected by the First Amendment could not have been high on their to-do list.

_She_ on the other hand…

She had _his_ number, and within the span of a few calls to some associates of her own, she had his address. Through the wonders of social media, she also obtained some salient information on Olga Pataki-Vasquez. Information that included her place of work: City Library.

She called the employer under the pretense of being an old friend of Olga's, who happened to be in town and through social media found out where she worked. Anyway, could she speak with her long-lost friend? _Maybe meet her in a public area for the reduced chance of theatrics._

Sorry, they said, but she's not feeling well and called in sick. _So much for that idea…_

Well thank you so much anyway, Phoebe ended the call politely. So it seemed a house call was in order.

These events were accomplished by Phoebe after a reasonable-given-the-circumstances four hours of sleep, but before much-needed ablutions, and a quick breakfast. Here she was now, fretting and fussing over what to wear and how to present herself to Olga. She settled on somewhat baggy blue jeans, which she matched with an equally loose-fitting blue t-shirt and her one-size-too-big black university sweatshirt. She planned to hide as much of her – admittedly – sexy curves as possible so as not to arouse suspicion in Olga. At this moment in time, she couldn't afford to take for granted that Olga didn't know of the affair, nor that her mental health had become any more robust with age and wisdom.

As she was set to leave the room, something caught her eye. The revolver, given to her by Hilda via Arnie. Phoebe had placed it on her dresser and pretty much ignored it since. The butt was protruding from what Arnold had earlier explained was a belly band holster. _Great concealment, especially for such a small weapon_, he extolled. She stared and she stared, not knowing if taking the weapon with her would be a prudent decision.

Suddenly Arnie's words from the previous morning were playing in her head:

"**_This is because Hilda believes you'll be needing it in the near future. And Hilda is never wrong about these things."_**

Well, Phoebe and Arnold _did_ prove Hilda correct in how they would need and still needed one another.

But _this_…

What were the chances that Hilda could be wrong?

* * *

There she lay.

His goddess, his beautiful goddess, decked out in pink and white. Smudges of dirt and grime and blood covering her.

Eyes closed, no more pain in her expression. Seemingly at peace…for all eternity.

_What have I done? SWEET JESUS, WHAT HAVE I DONE?_

His mind descended into chaos. His vision became a prismatic tunnel as his brain went into overdrive to shield itself from what the eyes and ears were transmitting to it.

"Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!..." he yammered as he began a zombie-like shuffle to nowhere in particular.

He was now oblivious to light and sound and space and time as he shambled…and shambled.

His trudging came to a halt as he heard a familiar voice: "Brainy?...BRAINY?...BRAINY!"

Next, a boy and girl came into focus: Arnold and Phoebe. Familiar faces. Live familiar faces. Arnold kept inundating him with questions, but Brainy wasn't hearing them.

"Don't know…Sorry…Sorry…"

It was all his brain would allow his mouth to utter. Then his brain decided he'd had enough and shut down. Merciful blackness engulfed the pain and confusion.

**"_You…you killed her? You killed her!" Arnold felt his anger rise._**

**"_I didn't want to!" a still tearful Brainy pleaded, before looking the rest of the room over. Smith wore a heavy, dour expression. Sheena stared at him, her eyes widened in shock and her hands covering her equally wide-open mouth._**

**"_You killed her!" repeated Arnold, even louder._**

**"_Arnold!" Sheena turned her attention to her patient, perhaps welcoming the moment of distraction. "Control yourself. You're still recovering," she urged. "He had no say in the matter!"_**

** _She turned back to Brainy. "It's true, isn't it Brainy?" she pleaded with a note of desperation. "You didn't want to do it, right? Right?"_ **

When he came to, Brainy found himself on a hospital bed, alone in a ward except for a doctor at his bedside who instantly became aware of his newfound consciousness.

"Good day, Mister Doe," she greeted while looking up from a tablet that she was intently studying. "I'm Doctor Morrison, and I'm mightily impressed at your hardiness. You survived an explosion that totaled an entire building, and in some style too! Most we had to do was remove a glass shard from your arm and stitch up the wound. Other than that, just a medium concussion and some cuts and scrapes. Like I said, color me impressed!"

"D-Doe?" Brainy managed.

"As in '_John Doe Number 2_', as admitted to Drymon Medical Clinic roughly twenty-four hours ago, and whose parents _still_ haven't provided us with positive ID," Doctor Morrison clarified. "Look, we're on a timer here. If I offer you a glass of water, would you be willing to straighten up some things for me?"

She offered; he accepted. And on to the questions.

"See," she started. "I've got bystander accounts of a scrawny young boy with crooked spectacles stumbling his way out of ground zero – that would be you, by the way. Then I also have this curious case. Young girl, named Pataki…ever heard of her?"

With that, she turned the tablet his way and immediately he felt his stomach pitch. She had shown him a picture of Helga lying on a mortuary slab, eyes wide open, a white sheet preserving her post-mortem modesty. He wanted to throw up, but the doctor intervened: "Hey! _Hey!_ No hurling of guts until _after_ we're done, you savvy?"

Brainy nodded weakly.

She then swiped to show him another picture, a close-up of Helga's open eyes. "See those purple spots on the eyeballs, young man? We doctors call them petechiae: teeny tiny little burst blood vessels, that's what they are."

Brainy felt queasy again, but Doctor Morrison wasn't having it. "And you know what our first instinct is when we find such nasties? That the victim was choked to death!"

The queasiness was building, but no, the good doctor had more. Another swipe and Helga's neck was on display. "See the bruising there? What we doctors call..._ligature_ marks. Another sign of manual strangulation."

It was all too much for Brainy as he motioned desperately for the wastepaper basket, which he received barely in time to vomit a vile concoction of blood and bile.

Doctor Morrison was unmoved. "You know who else calls these things 'petechiae' and 'ligature marks'? Police detectives! Specifically…the ones who when I show them these pictures would arrest the only person seen walking out of the rubble, whom they'd presume to be the last person to see the Pataki girl alive and—"

"Her name…" Brainy interrupted with a gravelly voice, "was Helga…Geraldine…Pataki! Don't you be so…_flippant_…about her!"

He felt an angry determination overcome his weakened state. He saw how the doctor paused briefly at his outburst. She then smiled wryly: "Good! We seem to be getting somewhere! So you're saying you didn't do this willingly?"

Brainy nodded before recounting the entire ordeal, after which the doctor made yet another swipe, though this time she didn't turn the picture towards Brainy. "Hm," she declared, "that explains the hole in her chest. For what it's worth, kid," she continued with more compassion in her voice this time, "you did her a favor. The pole pierced her left lung and ruptured her thoracic aorta. She'd have bled out painfully in a matter of minutes."

**"_Knowing that brought me fuck-all relief," a still tearful Brainy confessed to the assembly._**

Apparently, she was done with the tablet, for she gave it no further attention.

"But you see, John Doe Number 2, we now have a problem. I am still obligated, required by law, to report my findings and your confession to the police…"

Brainy felt an onset of vertigo.

"…which will put you on the hook for manslaughter."

He was blacking out as the blood was flushing out of his brain.

"On the other hand…how can I ignore an act of mercy like this? Tell me – and be honest! Helga Pataki. Helga…_Geraldine_…Pataki. You loved her, didn't you?"

His answer: "I wish our roles were reversed right now. I wish she was on this bed and I was on your tablet."

He then watched as Doctor Morrison, having heard his answer, made a few motions on her tablet before declaring: "Oh darn! Wherever did those pictures suggesting strangulation go? Shoot! I guess the official cause of death will have to be exsanguination or even respiratory shock as suspected by the paramedics! Don't you worry: I'll sell it!"

Brainy was confused. "Doctor. Why?"

Doctor Morrison's flippant tone evaporated, replaced by sober professionalism. "Because anyone willing to bomb a building full of innocent children is one twisted, godless, motherless sack of shit, incapable of feeling love for another human being. And you, John Doe Number 2, are not that kind of person. You do not deserve to burn in hell for all eternity, just to quench the idiot public's short-sighted demand for its pound of flesh."

Brainy felt tears of relief welling in him, and the doctor noted as much. "And as for our discussion? Consider yourself Catholic, me the Pope, and this your confession. Only…without the thing about little boys…That's just gross!"

He felt ashamed that he wanted to start chuckling under the given circumstances, and the doctor noted that as well. "This is your second chance, kid. Grow up, take care and do good."

At that very instant, a nurse rushed into the ward. "Doctor Morrison! Doctor Morrison!" he called breathlessly. "The Shortman kid's regained consciousness! He wants to know about his family...!"

The doctor turned back to Brainy and sighed. "Always my least favorite part of the job...," as she and the nurse left the room.

**"_Brainy, for what it's worth, the doctor was right," Sheena reassured. "Helga would have died one way or the other."_**

**"_So why do I still feel like crap all these years later?" replied Brainy. He then slowly left the room as Arnold and the others looked on in sympathetic silence._**

* * *

Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck did not like the position in which he currently found himself. He was seated in his office at FTI headquarters. He had increased his security detail even more; he was effectively a prisoner in his own fortress.

He knew that the staff was gossiping about the increase in guards. He was aware that speculation was rife about the big boss man suddenly needing more and more protection. It had not escaped him that he was appearing weak to them by arriving and leaving with a heavily armed entourage of PMC's.

He had canceled all of today's meetings, and internal communications had to be done via email or phone, or through a trusted intermediary.

A reasonable onlooker would call him cautious.

A suspicious one would call him paranoid.

"Fuck you, Arnold Shortman!" he loudly vented his fury. How come his body wasn't found after last night's events? Answer: Because he's a stubborn little fucking insect who refuses to be squashed!

The bus crash.

The bombing.

Asmara.

A squad of fifteen PMC's.

_Another_ bombing…

He would not stay down!

_He _was the reason for the mighty Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck having to cower behind a wall of guards. He was the reason for this powerful business leader becoming the object of ridicule to his peers and minions. He was the reason that Scheck's recent actions and decisions had been erratic and desperate.

And so Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck had to arrive at the inevitable conclusion: he was scared of Arnold Shortman.

Perhaps it was time to cut his losses and sound the retreat to some far-flung tax haven. Luxembourg, maybe. Ireland, or even Switzerland. Set up shop in any of those countries and live out his life away from his nemesis.

But that would make him seem like a coward, a failure in the eyes of his long lineage. The Tomato Incident was to this day considered a blemish on the Scheck name, and the boy who had twice thwarted Scheck's quest for family redemption was threatening to undo his successful third attempt.

Arnold Shortman had to die: no matter the cost, Scheck would not back down. He _couldn't_.

His more powerful allies may have been scurrying for their own survival, but he still had mid-level support waiting to be exploited. And suddenly, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck grinned a diabolical grin as he felt another plan take shape.

He reached for his Rolodex to retrieve the number of another influential contact whom he knew would remain loyal come what may.

His message was simple: "Cut him loose…Yes, I'm sure…Because I believe he has regained his usefulness."

With those words spoken, Plan B was set in motion. He then buzzed for his assistant: "Red, can you bring over some files? I'm looking into expanding our portfolio into Central America…That's right…Well, let's start with San Lorenzo's mineral mining and energy rights!"

On the other side of the call, a short, balding middle-aged Rat Squad detective whose suit made him look more like a bitter, ineffective vice-principal than anything else, ended the call.

He then made a show of gathering his documents and switching off the recording equipment, before announcing to Detective Mark Vasquez: "We're done, detective. Thank you for your time and co-operation."

_Is that it?_ Vasquez was confused. _He grills me for an hour or so, then he just stops and says we're done?_

The IAB detective sensed Vasquez's confusion and simply offered: "Seems our boss still believes in second chances."

_Scheck! He still wants to go after Shortman. Is he fucking insane?_

"You're still off the cemetery case, though," the other detective clarified. "Chances are you'll be placed on administrative leave. I'd suggest going home and waiting."

Later, as Detective Mark Vasquez walked out of the building, his relief was clear for all to see and all he wanted at that very moment was to crawl into the deepest hole he could find and disappear off the planet. But he knew not of any such hole, so a coma on his bed at home would have to suffice.

* * *

Brainy was unsure how much time had passed since walking out of the room.

Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour?

His confession had been much needed and long overdue, but it had done little to ease his conscience. As he stood in his backyard, staring into eternity, he wondered if Arnold would forgive him for his action. Or even understand, let alone forgive.

And Sheena. Was she offering mere platitudes by defending him against Arnold? Because for some bizarre reason, knowing that Sheena would believe him was his number one concern. Arnold and Smith's support still mattered; Sheena's mattered more.

"…I just want to say…it took a lot of courage to…well…tell the truth after all these years."

He turned to his back door, where Sheena was standing and from where her voice had come.

"I mean, uh," she hesitantly continued, "I always thought something was hurting you inside…even all the way back at school."

His eyes were still puffy from the tears he'd shed as he dared to look her in the eye. "You must think I'm a terrible person." He'd cry some more if not for the fact that he was out of tears.

Sheena maintained her non-accusatory tone as she answered: "You know, a year or so ago I get this call. Some random guy walked into a bar with a shotgun and proceeded to shoot up the place something bad. Killed three patrons before getting shot himself. Anyway, I get there to find the shooter and a fourth victim on the floor. Shooter happens to be closest to me, so I tend to him first – I mean, he's still a victim, right? '_Innocent until proven guilty_', or so they say. While I'm working on him, the fourth victim dies…"

"That…that had to suck," was all that Brainy could contribute.

"Yes, indeed it…it sucked…but it gets better. I patch him up and we get him to the ER. Full eventual recovery, we hear. Three months later, he's out on bail…same guy hits a fast food joint. Same MO, only this time he kills eight innocents, including two children, before blowing his own brains out."

Brainy was stunned silent.

"Sometimes you're forced into a situation where there's no clear right or wrong answer. And no matter what choice you make, someone ends up getting hurt or worse and there's nothing you can do about it. I had to learn that lesson very quickly."

Having heard that revelation, Brainy no longer wanted to hear any more of Sheena's words; he wanted to hug her. Which is exactly what he did, as he walked up to her, then wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace that suggested never wanting to let her go. Sheena was rendered mute as she stood rigid in her initial surprise, before wrapping her own arms around Brainy for an embrace of her own that matched his in tenderness, sincerity, and intensity. After what seemed far too little time, the two freed themselves and stood hand-in-hand staring at each other.

Sheena broke the silence eventually: "Look, I have to get back home. You know…" she trailed off with a smirk, "…to get whatever sleep I _still_ can before my shift starts this afternoon."

Brainy could only smile apologetically for his actions. "I suppose a sorry not sorry is in order then?"

"I suppose so," replied Sheena.

"In that case…" teased Brainy as he leaned into Sheena and planted a kiss plumb on her lips, holding it briefly before pulling away and continuing with, "…sorry, not sorry."

"Take care, Brainy," was all she said with a smile as she turned to leave.

After seeing Sheena off, Brainy found Arnold seated in his lounge, flipping idly through the news channels.

"Where's Smith?" Brainy tentatively asked the former Ranger, not sure of the appropriate tone and conduct given his recent confession.

"Left with his driver. Some or other details at the office he needs to look into." Arnold's tone was the vocal equivalent of an effective poker face. Somehow, the soldier sensed Brainy's uncertainty and added: "Sit down if you want to! I'm not going to hurt you!"

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Deciding that Arnold's assurance was genuine, Brainy slotted himself on the couch next to his blonde comrade. They sat in silence, pretending to be interested in the recycled news reports that really told them nothing other than what they already knew.

Brainy found the silence unnerving, and so ventured: "So…how come you're not wanting to put a bullet in my brain?"

Arnold answered in casual monotone: "Who says I wasn't?" Brainy felt as if he'd tap-danced on a yellowjacket nest while covered in syrup. So his relief was all too palpable at Arnold's follow-up: "But I did have time to think it over and cool down a bit. And guess what…I have a story similar to yours."

"How so?"

"Last night I put a bullet in the head of an attacker who was gutshot and asked to end it quickly. I then got into a really heated argument with Phoebe after she dragged me over the coals for that."

"Oh?"

"I swear, she can be as stubborn as the best when she sticks to an opinion."

"I hear you!" replied Brainy with a sigh, interpreting Arnold's cues as permission to be more informal with one of Uncle Sam's finest killers.

"So after defending my actions against Phoebe and then hearing you confessing to similar action," Arnold resumed, "I reckon I'd just be a hypocrite for coming down on you too hard."

Brainy was relieved. "Doesn't make what I did any less horrible," he exhaled ruefully.

"Wanna know why else I believe you?" asked Arnold, thus giving the spook hope that forgiveness was forthcoming. "Phoebe would think I'm nuts if I told her this. _You_, on the other hand…I think you'd want to hear me out."

"Go on," nodded Brainy, his curiosity whetted.

"For the past seventeen years, I've been having these dreams in which I'm talking with Helga. I'm talking full-blown dialogue, with total recall! Sometimes I playback the time at San Lorenzo's airport when we became a couple and damn near made out in front of the entire class." Brainy wasn't all too pleased with _that_ reminder, and Arnold noted his expression. "…anyway, I had one of those dialogues with her while I was out after the fall last night. She said something about…how I shouldn't give up on my life…not like she did."

Arnold paused and Brainy's silence urged him to continue. "And you know, when we talk, she's always so cheerful…but so sad at the same time. Like there was something she wanted to tell me but never could. I never thought it would be _this_!"

"You couldn't have known, Arnold," offered Brainy. "For all she knew, you were also dead, Phoebe as well. All she'd have left would be her family. And, well…" He left it there; he really didn't want to mention the possibility.

"To quote a wise man: '_So why do I still feel like crap all these years later?'_" mused Arnold.

"We're pathetic, aren't we?" assessed Brainy, which earned him a quirked eyebrow and a sideways glance from Arnold. "I mean," explained Brainy, "you have an asshole who loved the girl wholeheartedly but who thought the best way to impress her was by stalking her…"

A suppressed titter from Arnold.

"…then you have an idiot who got stalked most of his life by someone who would later become the love of his life, as a result of the worst case ever of Stockholm Syndrome!"

A suppressed chuckle; he was bent on preserving his ribs. "Well, when you put it that way..! Yeah, I guess we are pathetic."

Now sensing a budding camaraderie, Brainy ventured onto a different, possibly lighter topic. "So…you and Phoebe, last night in the alley. It was getting pretty steamy out there. Care to explain what that was all about?"

Arnold didn't even blush when he replied: "Only if you first tell me what happened out back for Sheena to leave with such a big grin on her face."

* * *

The trip across town comprised three bus trips, followed by a three-block walk. It should have been tedious and to be honest, she'd have welcomed the tedium. Phoebe did not want to make this journey but her guilt over the matter had overridden her logical faculties.

Even with the three-block walk from the last bus stop, the journey was over all too soon.

Here she was now: Phoebe Heyerdahl, poised to ring the front doorbell at the residence of Mark Vasquez. Hoping to confess her infidelity with Mark… to none other than his wife, Olga Pataki-Vasquez.

_Sure, what could possibly go wrong?_

Thanks to a large spike in courage and adrenalin, she rang the doorbell.

And waited.

And waited.

She heard steps from inside approaching the door, followed by the sound of locks and bolts moving.

The door opened to reveal a smiling Olga.

Before Phoebe could utter her first word, Olga beat her to it. "Why if it isn't Phoebe Heyerdahl, my old friend from out of town?" Her smile and tone were too saccharine to pass for sincere. "Imagine my surprise," Olga continued, "when I got a call from my librarian friends saying that you were looking for me. I've been expecting you. Please, do come in."

At which point Phoebe felt compelled to accept the invitation. The sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun Olga was pointing at her left no room for argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: 'Vivid, Not Graphic.' That was my mantra for Brainy's flashback. The point was not to dwell on the actual carnage, but on Brainy's horror after he was dropped into the thick of it. That's also why I didn't have the doctor show him all the pictures; if he didn't see them, then I wouldn't have to describe them.
> 
> Author's Note #2: Yes, I do believe Helga would have made such a decision after considering her future prospects without Arnold or Phoebe, whom she could reasonably have assumed had also perished. Also, she would have been aware of Brainy's love of her after two separate events from the series: one from 'Helga on the Couch' and the other from 'The Jungle Movie'.
> 
> Author's Note #3: I watched a Youtube review of 'The Predator', which (unsurprisingly) hated it. The most interesting criticism was how an invincible, unstoppable bad guy really is a boring bad guy. A vulnerable bad guy, such as in the original 'Predator', is far more interesting as it must compensate with cunning and a long-game mentality. That's why Scheck and Vasquez have made errors, so we can see how resilient they are and what their Plan B will be.
> 
> Author's Note #4: In case you're wondering, I constantly refer to Scheck by his full name and to Vasquez by his rank and full name, so that you get an idea of their overblown senses of self-importance. Just in case you were wondering...
> 
> And here's the Spotify list that most influenced this chapter. It was mostly tailored around Brainy's scenes to reflect his state of mind.  
Rooster - Alice in Chains  
Harry's Place - Bruce Springsteen  
Brothers in Arms - Dire Straits  
Beautiful - Elvis Costello  
What If - Kate Winslet  
Chinese Translation - M. Ward  
Into Dust - Mazzy Star  
Carpet Crawlers - Steve Hackett (feat. Ray Wilson)  
King of Pain - The Police  
The Song Is Over - The Who  
Harm In Charge- Toro y Moyo


	17. Alea Iacta Est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Brainy breaks down and reveals what happened in the rubble seventeen years ago. Can Arnold forgive him? Phoebe reaches out to Olga and immediately regrets it when she succeeds. Scheck isn't satisfied with a draw: Arnold must die!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

_And so it's come down to this. Brilliant!_

Those were Phoebe's thoughts as she was sat in Olga's lounge, across from her shotgun-toting hostess. Shotgun notwithstanding, Olga had laid out a modest spread for her guest on the coffee table that separated the two.

Olga had aged remarkably well. She'd grown her blonde hair to shoulder-length, and her face showed little evidence of her advanced years. She wore an ankle-length floral dress that flattered her still-lithe figure and highlighted her not-too-modest bosom, proclaiming 'She's still got it!' to the world.

"So sorry for the slim pickings, Miss Heyerdahl, but then again I didn't have much time for anything more substantial. Plus, I wasn't entirely sure at what time you'd arrive," Olga explained herself in a smiling impersonation of a dutiful housewife fearing reprisal from her husband.

At least Olga's spread provided a temporary distraction for Phoebe from the borderline off-her-meds individual with the firearm. Surrounding an ornate teapot was a selection of treats that included shortbread, madeleines and mini cupcakes.

_Short notice? This? Yeah right!_

Phoebe decided that pacification might be her best option, so she moved to help herself to some of the treats. "I do appreciate the effort you've put into entertaining me. Thank you so much," she said in an accepting voice that she hoped would mask her nervousness.

"You know," Olga interjected, her smile unwavering. "I don't recall giving you explicit permission to help yourself to my things." Then, as the slightest hint of anger crept across her still-smiling visage: "But…somehow I get the impression that it wouldn't be the first time something like that has happened."

Phoebe's brain seized at Olga's conclusion. She was rendered silent and immobile almost instantaneously.

"Well, am I right? Or how would you have said it way back when?" Olga followed up with an almost pitch-perfect rendition of Phoebe's voice: "Is there any accuracy to my hypothesis?" She then reverted to her normal voice: "Yes, I believe that's more you!"

Olga capped off her musings by giving the shotgun a small but menacing wiggle.

_Fuck you, impulse control!_ It was the only thought that immediately came to Phoebe's mind.

* * *

Two hours ago Arnold wanted to kill Brainy. That was when the latter had revealed his role in the death of Helga Geraldine Pataki.

Now, he wasn't nearly as blinkered in that intention of his. Two hours of subsequent internal reflection, of considering any number of similar actions he'd taken in his military career, had calmed him down. It didn't hurt either when Brainy offered him a beer, in all likelihood against doctor's orders. But the beer fulfilled its purpose; it helped lighten the tone of the ensuing conversation. And what an enlightening conversation it turned out to be.

"No effing way!" cried a disbelieving Arnold at Brainy's latest revelation. Two hours ago, these two men were connected only through an untouchable white-collar criminal and a long-deceased blonde girl. They weren't exactly spoilt for choice of conversational topics, but the fates of their schoolmates seemed as good a starting point as any.

"God's honest truth!" reassured Brainy, having revealed the fate of Patricia Smith.

If Brainy was to be believed, then Big Patty was an up-and-comer in the MMA circuit and not far away from a UFC, WAKO or ISKA title shot. Arnold, who didn't particularly follow combat sports, was taken aback at the revelation.

"Man, you won't recognize her at all! She's now built like a cross between Holly Holm and Vonda Ward!"

Again, Arnold didn't catch any of the references so all he could do was nod in agreement.

Damn, but Brainy was an encyclopedia! Any name Arnold could think of, Brainy had the info and the details.

Lila Sawyer (Of course, _she'd_ pique his interest…): "Married to Lorenzo; now living in Canada; one son."

The Johanssens: "Parents retired to Florida with Gerald's ashes; Jamie-O runs his own custom car shop in Hillwood while supporting Timberly through college. Gerald's death seems to have brought the two siblings closer."

How about the Lloyds? "Moved to another part of Hillwood; successfully conceived another child, a daughter; happiest day of their life."

And it was the same pattern for pretty much everyone else.

The Horowitzes.

The Bermans.

The Petersons.

The Gamelthorpes.

Park.

Wartz.

Simmons.

_Anyone_, no matter how obscure. Arnold would mention a name; Brainy would tell of their fate and current status with no beat missed.

"What about you, Brainy?" It was quite a broadside from Arnold. "How are _your_ parents?"

Hesitation from the spook. "Divorced," he reluctantly admitted. "And it's my fault once again."

"Oh?"

"After the blast, I was having nightmares every night, acting out at anything, seeing trouble everywhere, suspecting everyone was out to get me. Drove a wedge between Mom and Pop as they tried to deal with me and bounce me from shrink to shrink. It all eventually got too much for Pop and he split."

"Shit, sorry. I didn't know…"

"How could you know? I still see them every so often. Birthdays and holidays. Get this, I tell them I run a consultancy firm. I also tell them it's involved with law enforcement and very much hush-hush so neither one has asked any in-depth questions about my job…"

"Brainy, I'm curious," Arnold followed up in a sober tone. "What are your plans if we ever settle up with Scheck?

Brainy hesitated some more, before admitting: "Never really thought about it. Kinda living day by day, to be honest."

"What about your parents? Ever try to patch things up with them? Do you ever plan to tell them about…well, _this_?" He capped off his question by motioning towards the surroundings. "I mean, Jesus Christ, Brainy! You still have both your parents, _still_ alive..!

"Duly noted," sighed Brainy, frustrated that Arnold's was a valid point. "When all of this blows over, I'll make a point to visit them more often. Just don't ask that I give them the full disclosure! Now what about you, Arnold? What are your plans after this tour of duty of yours?"

"For one thing, try for a normal life back in the country," mused Arnold while staring up into infinity.

To which Brainy scoffed. "Be realistic! There's no going back to normal life after what we've been through! I mean, _look_ at us! Our jobs chose us, not the other way round."

"True that, but at least I've got someone for whom I'm willing to give it my best goddamn shot."

"You mean Phoebe, right?" Brainy spurred Arnold on.

Not that Arnold needed much encouragement. "It's funny, don't you think? I meet her for the first time in seventeen years, and in, like…three days...? I've gotten to know her so much better in the past three days than I ever got to know Helga in eight years. I don't know how or why, but I feel there's nothing I wouldn't do for her, her safety or her happiness."

Brainy had to smile internally at that revelation. This was in no way his intended outcome when he put Phoebe in contact with Arnold; all he wanted at the time was the easiest, least complicated, most expedient method of luring Arnold back to Hillwood. That the two were in love with each other – he'd figured that out from how Phoebe spoke on her side of their earlier phone conversation – was an unplanned, totally unintentional by-product.

"Now back to you," Arnold now steered the conversation. "If…when… we get out of this situation. Are you really sure you don't have any other plans or goals?"

"I…err…" Brainy faltered. He was now cursing internally at Arnold's effortless ability to make people comfortable enough in his presence to answer even the most difficult personal questions, without the use of a weapon or any mention of his combat capabilities.

Arnold didn't wait for Brainy to continue. "Look, it's been years and…well…right now I'm the last person who should be doing this…but, you up for some free advice?"

A tentative nod from Brainy.

"Whatever plans you make, you'd do well to include a certain paramedic. And don't look so surprised!" Even though he wasn't looking at Brainy, Arnold's superior, combat-honed peripheral vision informed him that the mole beside him had a look of disbelief plastered all over his face. "Don't think I haven't seen how you look at her and how she looks at you. She's willing to help you out, last-minute at some unreasonable hour instead of biting your head off _too_ much."

Arnold noticed a flinch from Brainy, which he read as a sign not to let up. "She was first to stand up for you during your confession. She believed you, well before me or Mister Smith. Over and above, she believes _in_ you."

Brainy couldn't even react to that particular bombshell, because Arnold had more still to say. "I don't know your exact history, but something tells me at least one of you doesn't want to keep it strictly professional for much longer."

"In that case," Brainy conceded, "let me tell you all about our exact history. How about another beer before I start talking?"

* * *

"OK, let the questioning commence!". There was much dramatic flair in Olga's voice and mannerisms. The shotgun was still trained on Phoebe, lending a chilling incongruence to Olga's almost playful delivery.

"I'd like to preface the first question with this," continued Olga. "You were brilliant at last night's press conference! A flawless, unwavering performance in which you cast enough doubt to effectively derail an entire investigation. However, here's the rub: I got the impression that there was some unusual aspect in your Q&A as if both you and Mark were taking either the case or each other's presence, deeply personally."

_Shit, she's good!_

Olga was not yet done with her preface. "Then came your reference to me." She then repeated the 'To your _wife_?' statement in another uncannily accurate rendition of Phoebe's voice. "You know, we were taught in Drama class how stressing different words in any given sentence can significantly alter its meaning. And the pointedness with which you emphasized 'wife' led me to believe there's history between you two, more personal than professional. And so we arrive at the first question: Did you have sex with my husband?"

_So much for breaking the news gently_, Phoebe silently cursed. Phoebe felt the inside of her mouth run dry as she let out a silent stammer instead of an answer.

"Oh, did I put too fine a point on it?" mocked Olga. "What I meant was: Did you fuck Mark César Vasquez, husband to the woman currently pointing the shotgun at you?" Her playful veneer was starting to erode.

So Phoebe figured that with nothing to gain from lying, the truth was all she had left. "Yes," she replied timidly. 'Yes', and no more.

"What, is that it?" asked Olga, taken aback by Phoebe's laconic confession. "No explanation? No rationalization? No excuses?"

Upon hearing those words, Phoebe saw an opening. She'd still need to play her hand very carefully; Olga still had the shotgun and her fickle demeanor. "Why bother?" Phoebe protested. "You sound like you've made up your mind already."

Olga's change in expression suggested that her interrogation was going off-script, so she tried salvaging the situation. "Don't think I've forgotten how instrumental you were in rescuing us back in San Lorenzo all those years back," she began, sounding sincere. "Were it not for you, we'd be at the mercy of Lasombra's men and I shudder to think what they'd do to us and the other girls over time." At that last sentence, she really did shudder. "My point is, as suspicious as I was when you arrived and as incensed as I am now, your efforts back then have at least earned you some benefit of my doubt. Think of it as me cashing in my gratitude."

_A reprieve! Thank god!_ Now if only Olga could keep talking and maybe create another opening…

"Back to the question: What's your excuse. Did it just happen? Did he seduce you? Did you need him to help you chase down a story? For god's sake, _why_?"

"Yes. Yes. And yes." Phoebe was hoping that more laconic answers would incite Olga to keep talking to her distraction

Indeed, those words pushed Olga into abandoning her fading façade of playfulness, and the elder blonde stood up, gun in hand, and walked across to Phoebe, where she stood over the bespectacled woman who wasn't even looking her way. After a brief pause, she struck Phoebe across the left temple with the butt of her weapon. The strike drew blood and sent Phoebe tumbling off her seat and onto the floor where she lay dazed and disoriented.

_So much for trying to play her_, Phoebe thought in instant, painful regret.

Olga's voice had now completely abandoned any vestige of being in control of her emotions. "You want to use up what little goodwill I've shown you," she ranted, "keep giving me those useless one-word answers!"

_And there goes my opening_, Phoebe muttered internally.

"Bitch, answer the fucking questions. How did it happen? _Why_ did it happen?"

"Vitaly Santalov. And you," Phoebe replied through her excruciating haziness.

Olga's rage gave way to confusion once more. "And how exactly does Santalov figure in you fucking Mark?"

_Aha, another opening!_ Phoebe rejoiced quietly at another shot at getting her point across to Olga. She slowly and groggily rose to her knees, under Olga's unwavering 12-gauge watch.

"It all began when I started investigating Vitaly Santalov…" began a bloodied Phoebe.

"And just how–" interrupted Olga before Phoebe abruptly cut her off.

"If you want the truth, then no interruptions!" insisted Phoebe despite her disadvantageous position, with a slow-seeping cut on the side of her head. Her firm tone successfully convinced Olga to play by the former's rules, shotgun or no shotgun.

"Santalov. He's the man who carried out the Sunset Arms bombing—"

"Bombing?" Olga's disbelief was clear as day. "That was an accident! A gas main explosion or something!"

"I said…shut…_up_!" snapped Phoebe while doing a silent self-assessment. _Shit_, she concluded, _she struck exactly where I didn't need to be struck_. By which she meant: Olga had struck her already damaged prefrontal cortex, setting back her already slowly recovering impulse control by god knows how long.

Regardless of how ill-advised Phoebe's tone was, her command unsettled Olga back into silence.

Phoebe continued. "I came back to Hillwood to investigate the Sunset Arms incident. Some aspects of the original report didn't add up, so I wanted to look into it…maybe get at least some closure for the lives lost…for Gerald…and Helga. Maybe even some justice…" She had started feeling lightheaded from the blow and was struggling to maintain her lucidity.

"For Helga, you say? How fucking noble! How Machiavellian, the ends justifying the means! Oh Mercy, since it was all for 'closure' and 'justice'," she quoted those words in a more exaggerated imitation of Phoebe's timbre, "then I suppose that all must be forgiven, then!" Olga couldn't resist the barbs, having remembered that _she_ was the one holding the shotgun.

Phoebe chose to ignore the mockery and forced herself to continue: "I…uncovered evidence of foul play. Suppressed evidence pointing to a homemade explosive device being used."

Olga's quirked eyebrow hinted at her interest having been piqued.

Phoebe pressed on with her tentative new advantage. "So then I looked into the owner of the building where the Sunset Arms once stood and—"

"Vitaly Santalov?" There was now curiosity in Olga's voice. _Good_, thought Phoebe, _at least I have her engaged for now_.

"Vitaly Santalov," concurred Phoebe. "I looked into him, his businesses and his associates. Hung around the courts for their trials and hearings. And that's…" And here came the part she most feared: "…that's how I met Mark."

* * *

Strewn across his desk was data of all sorts.

Graphs and bald figures.

Satellite pictures.

Thermal imaging scans.

Reports proclaiming the results of ground-penetrating radar surveillance.

Even the outcomes of numerous inland and offshore sonar explorations.

Then there were geological surveys and rock composition studies.

Topographical studies too.

And the more Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck pored through the documents, the bigger his smile grew. Strewn across his desk were several lucrative possibilities within San Lorenzo. Where to begin?

The geological surveys pointed at several deposits of alluvial diamonds along the lower Rio Clara, with the largest by the estuary near Puerto Clara. Within the rainforest preserve, the same reports pointed towards copper-rich chalcocite seams underground. That was chalcocite: one of the most lucrative ores for mining one of the most widely used metals in industry.

Oh, but the news got better still.

The results of the offshore sonar exploration pointed at vast, untapped reserves of crude oil, conveniently situated _just _outside of San Lorenzo's territorial waters.

And the flow of good news _still_ hadn't stopped.

The topographical studies identified a section in the upper Rio Clara that was deemed highly viable for damming and for the generation of hydro-electric power.

Of course, the reports also included an environmental impact assessment component, any of which would give an environmental agent or activist a coronary. From deforestation, soil and water poisoning, mass extinction of several endemic species, topsoil erosion, all the way to a very high risk of oil pollution.

At this point, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was beaming from ear to ear at the possibilities. The environmental and socio-economic fallout far outweighed any potential revenue and profits. The earnings potential wasn't important; in fact, money wasn't his prime motivator this time. It was all about Arnold; it was always about Arnold.

Scheck had tried to get Arnold throughout the years through various methods.

Through his neighborhood.

Through his friends.

Through his job.

Through his deceased loved ones.

It was at this point that Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck now realized that he had been thinking small. For Arnold Phillip Shortman, he had to go big, _really_ big. Like, destroying-the-population-and-economy-and ecology-of-the-boy's-country-of-birth-just-to-flush-the-little-shit-out-of-hiding big! Anything that could threaten the Green-Eyed People and their way of life, maybe even lead to their extinction.

_Yes, more people whom you helped and saved, who'll die like the rest all because you fucked with me!_

But which option to choose? Which one stood to do the most damage to force Arnold out of hiding.

_Fuck it, we'll go with everything! It's all about portfolio diversification anyway. _Oh yeah, shit was about to get real!

But first…he had to secure whatever rights that needed securing: mineral; water; even oil, _just_ in case. He'd also need to sweeten the deal for whoever would grant those rights. Both would be the easy part. He'd simply call San Lorenzo's president and explain his business proposition, after which the head of state would earn a billion-dollar "consultancy fee" for his efforts in setting up the deal.

And with that, he contacted his secretary. "Red! I need you to set up a Skype call with a head of state."

"Very good, Sir. Which one this time?"

"El Presidente of San Lorenzo."

"Very good, Sir. I can have you good to go within half an hour. And Sir, should El Presidente enquire, what shall I tell him is the purpose of your call?"

Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck smiled a devious smile as he replied: "The future growth prospects of his country's economy."

* * *

Big Gino and Myron met back at the office.

"Today's the day, Myron," the diminutive boss figure announced. "Today we go after the big three."

"Not wanting to sound contradictory, Sir," the man-mountain acknowledged, "but I recall you wanted the gentlemen to stew a bit before we make a move on them."

And this was why Gino was glad Myron was his second-in-command. As loyal and obedient as Myron was, he still retained much of his agency and so always offered respectful, constructive criticism to his boss's decisions.

"We'll let them sweat some more today, then in the evening, we'll hit them. And no, I haven't forgotten about this morning's business."

The business to which Gino alluded, was a meeting with a group of Canadian smugglers who had stumbled across a particularly lucrative niche by smuggling heavily discounted cancer medication and other critical-disease medications from north of the border. Gino had learned of their operation and was looking to acquire their exclusive services in his bid to win further favor with the more impoverished residents within his territories.

"Very good, Sir, and sorry for speaking out of turn."

"All in due time, Myron. Just stick to the timeline."

* * *

_Well, at least I'm still alive…_

Phoebe was still in her kneeling position, under heavy scrutiny from Olga and her weapon. Phoebe had just given, under heavy duress, a detailed account of her involvement with Mark. From the logistics, the accompanying conversations, and even – to her embarrassment and Olga's vexation – some of the more intimate coital details.

"Let me understand," Olga led off with another probing statement. "You knew from the start that he was married, and so you insisted on not knowing the name of his wife – that would be yours truly – just to ease your conscience. Is that correct?"

Phoebe was forced to gamble on her next answer. "Correct," she replied before immediately following through with: "and also I took pity on him because he insisted that you were giving him hell at home. His exact words, 'giving me hell', quote-unquote."

The answer goaded Olga into a brief contemplation; thereafter, she administered a left-legged soccer kick to Phoebe's stomach. The shock and intensity propelled the dark-haired woman forward onto all fours, gasping to reclaim the air she'd just lost.

"Liar!" shouted Olga as she followed up with a second kick in which her right shin connected sweetly with the left side of Phoebe's ribcage. Phoebe was left choking on the sudden impacts while nursing her left flank.

"I swear, it's the truth!" insisted Phoebe between desperate chokes. "He insisted…you could be…unstable…prone to mood swings…high…high maintenance…distrustful of everything…"

Upon hearing those utterances, Olga froze in place. Phoebe seized the opportunity.

"Was he wrong? Was he lying?"

Olga remained silent.

"It doesn't excuse what I did…and believe me…if I could undo all of this shit…I would." _This_ was the opening Phoebe had been trying to find and she could ill afford to waste it; Olga would regain her senses shortly. "But Mark is as guilty of this deception as I am. He deceived both of us. Plus…he tried to have me killed afterward."

_Did I nail it_, wondered Phoebe. _Will she bite?_

An eternity elapsed, and then…"So the home invasion I read about…was that an attempted hit on you?"

_Yes!_ She had a foothold! She'd still have to tread carefully. "Yes. They were Santalov's men, sent to silence me. They claimed to be Hillwood PD…their ringleader was in contact with Mark…the Sheriff's Department dumped the man's phone and it showed numerous calls between the two…"

"He told me they were out to apprehend a double-murder suspect, but…" Phoebe saw how Olga was recollecting something. "…but I remember a call he received on Sunday evening. He seemed agitated. He was putting on a show about how lethal force may be unavoidable. You mean to say he was planning your murder?"

Phoebe had always considered Olga to be highly intelligent, so she was satisfied to see how the gears in the elder blonde woman's brain were starting to engage properly. The context Phoebe had provided was doing its job. But she still had to press on.

"Because he was working for Santalov. Doing whatever bidding needed doing. Santalov put him up to keep tabs on me, and ultimately ordered the attempt on my life."

"You're starting to lose me again," warned Olga. "Now you're telling me he's a _dirty_ cop? But he killed Santalov and got a commendation!"

"True, but that was on orders from his new boss."

"So who's the new boss, huh?"

"Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck."

Olga's eyes narrowed: a sign that her suspicion had not abated. "How do I know you're telling the truth and not just fucking with my head?"

_Yes!_ Phoebe had steered the conversation further in the desired direction. "You might want to seat yourself; I still have a lot more to say. Just one request…I'm slowly going to reach into my pocket to retrieve my phone. I ask that you please allow me that concession."

* * *

"Don't you find it strange that no reports made any mention about the shattered graves?" asked Arnold.

"Why would they?" replied Brainy. "It's all in the framing. They tried setting you up as a vigilante, make it seem like you lured the shooters to the cemetery. Those graves…they'd just contradict the narrative. If they're working the revenge angle with you baiting the shooters, then you destroying the graves of your loved ones doesn't compute."

"Of course," mulled Arnold. "Much better for someone to discover them after the investigation so that they can write it off as a random act of vandalism."

It just wouldn't happen today, since the cemetery was still an active crime scene and the investigation was officially still ongoing. The chances of investigators stumbling across the sites were quite remote, given that they were located in a different area to where the shootout had taken place.

Gone, or at least delayed, was _that_ means of connecting Arnold to the event. That left the .45 casings from his registered sidearm. Yet he wasn't too worried about that; Scheck was still his primary concern, him and his lapdog, Vasquez. From what he heard being speculated on the news, the evidence could implicate those two just as much as it could implicate Arnold. Which made Arnold the loose end to Scheck he'd always been.

And Arnold knew how much Scheck hated loose ends.

Arnold's conclusion: Scheck was already scheming to draw him out of hiding.

Meaning…

"Brainy," he turned to his new comrade, "about that less banged-up phone you said you'd give me. I think I'm gonna need it sooner rather than later."

"OK, give me a moment," replied Brainy, who disappeared to another section of the brownstone. A minute or so later, he returned carrying what looked like a large toolbox. He opened the box to reveal a broad array of immaculate smartphones that spanned several makes and models. "Pick one," he said plainly. "Don't worry, they're all fully charged," he added, just as plainly.

Arnold was agape at the variety, to which Brainy commented: "Tools of the trade. I always keep a stockpile, plus I have others stashed in lockers and PO Boxes all over the city."

"Shit, you take being prepared to another level!" commented an impressed Arnold.

"You know, that's a compliment coming from you!" said Brainy.

Arnold then picked a mid-range model with similar specs to his damaged phone. After that, it was a simple case of transferring his undamaged – small mercies..! – SIM card and the similarly undamaged SD card to the new phone and switching it on.

"So now what?" queried Brainy.

"Now…I take Gino up on his offer to help me."

"Excuse me?" Brainy's mistrust in Big Gino resurfaced. "Arnold, I still think Big Gino is bad news! You're still an idiot to trust him! Maybe you're right about him serving the neighborhood, but I've seen this game played out for years, so I know that guys like him ultimately serve themselves. No exception!"

"Even if that is so, he'll be useful in taking Scheck out of the picture, so why not take advantage of the situation?"

"OK, point taken," conceded Brainy. "But only because even your most crackpot, totally fucked-up schemes always have a way of working out. Besides, it's your life."

"Thanks, Brainy…I think. Now can I have some privacy if you don't mind?"

Brainy left the room in compliance, leaving Arnold to dial a number. Three rings, then the recipient picked up.

"Wrong number!"

"Cut the crap, Foutley! It's Arnold!"

"Oh yes! I read about you! The man who returned to Hillwood. Next, I'm reading about a bloodbath in the cemetery – such flair! – and a building being demolished, on exactly the same day you return. Coincidence?"

"Foutley, listen up!" Arnold could afford no time for banter. "I'm still not done; in fact, I'm preparing for round two. Scheck's gotta be doing the same. I need you to find out what the hell he's planning. Check his network, check FTI's network, find me _something_! I know he's scheming to draw me out!"

"Only because (a) you asked so politely and (b) you always provide me with the most interesting cases. I'll let you know when I have anything substantive."

"Foutley…thanks…for everything," said Arnold, almost sheepishly at having to be reminded of common civility, before ending the call.

He then placed another call. Another three rings before pickup.

"Arnold?"

"Hey Phoebe, are you OK?"

"_Arnold!_ Yes, I'm fine. I'm at Olga's place." Upon hearing that factoid, Arnold felt his heart stop and his stomach churn. As if Phoebe sensed those two occurrences, she hastily added a reassurance: "I believe we've been able to reconcile her mistakes and my indiscretions."

"Are you OK, Phoebe," Arnold repeated his initial question more urgently. "_Are_ you OK?"

"I promise you, Arnold, I'm mostly OK."

"_Mostly_?"

"Well," began Phoebe, somewhat self-consciously, "Olga has dressed my head wound, but my side still hurts from the kicking."

To which Arnold was rendered barely capable of controlling his agitation. "Phoebe, what the hell were you thinking? Walking into that lion's den. Get out of there before Vasquez returns. He gets you, and Scheck gains the leverage over us that he needs."

"Sorry Arnold, but Olga deserved to know what she's involved in. And I…well, I needed to confess and settle up with her and with my conscience."

"In the most boneheaded move I've ever heard of!" scolded Arnold.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you! Someone who not even…fourteen-or-so hours ago was willing to face deadly, almost insurmountable odds in a life-or-death situation!" Phoebe fired back.

"At least I didn't blunder in without a plan!"

"Yes, for all the good it did you!" Phoebe was having none of his reprimands. "How are the ribs, by the way?"

"Point being, Phoebe, that you're not safe where you are! Get out of there, right now, before Vasquez gets home!"

"Arnold, I know from past experience that Mark is currently being interrogated by IAB for botching the investigation. Those things take forever."

"But Phoebe—"

"No buts! You forget that I too have become quite adept at handling dangerous situations. You'll do well to accept that reality."

With that, she ended the call. Arnold immediately redialled the number, only for the call to go to voicemail. _Fuck, when she sticks to a decision…_

And just when he thought his late morning couldn't get more interesting, a contradiction arrived in the form of a pounding at Brainy's front door. Though he had no idea of who was at the door, the knocking was that of a law enforcement officer: booming and commanding.

_Shit, have we been made? It's too soon!_

His Glock was back in the bedroom. It might as well have been in San Lorenzo for all the good it currently would do him. The knocking persisted. A visibly worried Brainy appeared in the room. He too recognized the nature of the knocking and a look of 'What do we do now?' was apparent on his face. In confirmation of what his expression was conveying, he whispered to Arnold: "Shit, they've found us, and it sounds like they'll be shooting first and fuck the questions."

Arnold, meanwhile, was weighing several possibilities. It couldn't be a whole unit to take them down: too visible; too many witnesses; too many questions. It had to be a single officer…two, maximum. Easier to gain entry, less likely to arouse suspicion.

He could work with two. Engage them, maybe bullshit his way out of the situation, if not buy him and Brainy some time.

As the knocking continued Arnold decided to bet with chips he knew he didn't have. He moved silently to the side of the door. He waited for a break, whereupon he announced: "With a knock like that, you'd better have either a warrant or damn good probable cause!"

From outside: "Who said anything about warrants? As for probable cause, I have reason to believe that my favorite cousin is holed up at this location."

The voice was familiar.

"Fuck it. _Arnie_?"

"Lucky guess," replied Arnie in his usual easy-going voice. "Wanna let me in?"

Arnold complied, and in walked Arnie. Arnie briefly surveyed the surroundings before seeing Brainy, on whom he commented: "Who's the guy who looks like he just shat his pants?"

"Forget him!" Arnold was a curious mix of anger and confusion. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"What does it look like? I'm here to help."

* * *

When Phoebe informed Arnold of her current situation, she was, of course, telling the truth.

Olga had allowed Phoebe access to the latter's phone, which proved to be the turning point. Through the device, Phoebe was able to present several bits of evidence.

Olga saw the bank records showing how Mark's student debt was paid off from an offshore account, plus regular monthly payments to a separate offshore account set up in her name _("So it doesn't trace back directly to him," explained Phoebe._)

She saw that the payments originated from an account belonging to Vitaly Santalov, who in turn was receiving a monthly stipend from an FTI account, for which Alphonse Scheck was the only authorized signer. She saw too how Santalov owned Mark and how Scheck owned Santalov. (_"So Santalov's death was arranged?" By Scheck?" concluded Olga._)

She saw the dumped phone records showing repeated calls to a Santalov lieutenant which became especially concentrated leading up to the assassination attempt. _("He was coordinating the entire event," explained Phoebe._}

There were other examples, but the most damning was how Mark had lured Arnold to the cemetery. When she clapped her eyes on Helga's shattered stone, she was propelled over the edge. Her state was not improved when Phoebe recalled what Mark had said of Helga to goad Arnold out of hiding: "…_that batshit crazy weirdo_…"

_("Why are you making me see this?" Olga begged. "Why are you telling me this? Couldn't I just live with my illusion of happiness?"_)

Regardless of her enmity towards Phoebe, Olga could no longer bring herself to lash out against her late sister's best friend. What Mark had done with Phoebe was but a symptom of his deceptive nature, of a man who would strike a deal with Satan himself if there was any benefit to be had.

Knowing this was no comfort as she laid down the shotgun and embraced Phoebe, into whose chest she buried her head and mewled uncontrollably. Ten or so minutes later, she spoke again, feebly: "I still hate you, you know? This is what I get…for giving you…" she fought the urge to resume her mewling, "…the benefit of the doubt…"

"This wasn't about forgiveness," replied Phoebe. "This was about getting the ugly truth out there."

"Even if you had to destroy a vulnerable woman clinging to false happiness?" Again, Olga's voice was bitter, but she couldn't force herself to do Phoebe any more harm.

In fact…

"Stay here. I'll get some iodine for that cut," she announced softly. "And help yourself to some treats; I think you've earned it."

That was twenty minutes ago. Now, with Phoebe's cut dressed – done by Olga during which time nary a word was spoken between the two – and with her heated call with Arnold concluded, Olga saw a chance to administer a harsh burn on Phoebe.

"Was that Arnold you were fighting with over the phone?" she asked an unsuspecting Phoebe.

Olga still felt bitter about how Arnold had broken up her family at Helga's memorial all those years back and set in motion the series of events that sent her father to prison. Phoebe, however, had explained to her that Arnold was much more a victim of Scheck's machinations than the two of them combined. Olga subsequently promised Phoebe that she'd try to hate Arnold a little bit less over time.

"We were having…a disagreement," Phoebe confessed.

"So what exactly is he to you?"

To which Phoebe paused.

So Olga continued: "Is he a comrade? Is he true love? Or just a fuck buddy? A rebound, maybe?"

Phoebe remained uncomfortably silent.

"Because…you know…it must be great being single. The guy you're fucking ditches you, you move on to the next catch. Not like us married girls who still have to share a bed with the lying, cheating bastard."

Olga Pataki-Vasquez would have loved to continue tormenting Phoebe, but for the fact that she heard the front door being opened. Phoebe heard it too, and instantly both women's eyes were focussed on the point of entry. As the door swung open, Olga quickly retrieved her shotgun. By the time her husband entered the house, he found himself staring at the last two women he expected to find together in the same room.

"Oh hi, honey," Olga was back to her saccharine voice, shotgun aimed at him. "You won't believe what Phoebe here has been telling me about you! Then again, maybe you will!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I had a difficult time settling on a title for this chapter. One rejected title was 'Building Bridges In Bottles' (A reference to Bottle Episodes and of characters rebuilding relationships. The title on which I settled, well...thanks to Google you now know it to mean 'The Die Is Cast' in Latin. In other words, we've started preparing for the endgame.
> 
> Author's Note #2: I suppose I could have given detailed summaries of what happened to all of the families of the deceased and to all of Arnold's surviving PS 118 peers, but that would have slowed the story down and added to an already long chapter. I solved the matter by employing the Edgar Wright method of storytelling, whereby I only reveal what both Arnold and the reader (OK, OK, the writer) might consider interesting. Everything that only Arnold might find interesting, is alluded to without any details given. At least be assured that all their fates are known to Arnold.
> 
> Author's Note #3: I got the idea of Big Patty as an MMA fighter from a Jebbiepinka picture in which the girls are working out in a gym. I saw Patty in the picture and my first thought was 'Holly Holm'. I might still want to incorporate this observation into a future story. Incidentally, of all the Hey Arnold fanart out there, Jebbiepinka's works are what I consider the benchmark. Her Helga is simply gorgeous.
> 
> Author's Note #4: The mineral richness of San Lorenzo was a calculated guess. I based it on the current and expected future mining activities in Angola, a Subsaharan African country that would have a similar subtropical climate and soil and mineral composition to San Lorenzo. It's these little details that I sweat for your enjoyment.
> 
> Author's Note #5: Are you really surprised that Olga would lash out like that? I'm not, especially when I considered that she and Helga share the same genetic material and are cut from the same cloth. Put Olga in the same situation as her late sister - alienated from her family; feeling betrayed and abandoned - and there's no reason to believe she'd respond any differently.
> 
> And finally, the Spotify list that influenced this chapter:  
Woke Up This Morning - Alabama 3  
Ten Seconds - Cutting Jade  
Boulevard of Broken Dreams - Green Day  
Losing My Mind - Liza Minelli  
Everything Changed - Nigel Stanford  
It's Bad You Know - R.L. Burnside  
Erase/Rewind - The Cardigans  
Forgiven, Not Forgotten - The Corrs


	18. Because…Family Matters (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Scheck decides on the ultimate extreme to get another shot at Arnold. Arnold and Brainy share some male bonding. Phoebe is able to reach Olga before the arrival of an unexpected guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

She looked so beautiful and oh so delicate as he stood over her cradle. He stood, drinking in every minute detail; nothing was escaping his attention. Her face resembled her mother's in every regard, down to her eyes that were the same intense shade of blue. As far as he could see, his only contribution was the unruly shock of pale blonde hair on her scalp. He feared that he was currently experiencing a dream and that soon he'd be jolted awake and away from the illusion.

"I still can't get over how gorgeous she is!" he said softly to his resting wife, mother of this magnificent creation.

"Well, Lover," she replied sweetly despite her immense fatigue, "she _is_ your daughter."

"_Ours_," he corrected. "And right now I can't think of any luckier couple right this minute." He then resumed his loving vigil. The clock in the room read eight-thirty, Tuesday evening. He just that moment realized that he had spent all day with his wife and newborn daughter

Tired as his wife was, she saw right through him. "You're worried about him, don't deny it!"

At least he was glad _she'd_ broached the topic. "Hilda, he's my cousin. And I know we grew up hating each other, but…now we're more like brothers and I can't stand the thought that he's going out there to…"

"Then go help him." Hilda interrupted.

"But now there's me, you and our daughter and I can't just _what did you say_?" The surprise of Hilda's statement hit him mid-sentence.

Hilda re-iterated. "You'll just drive yourself crazy with worry. You'll be no good to anybody, most of all to your wife and daughter."

"But it's dangerous and you know it! How can you permit that so casually?" Arnie queried, before pausing, then sighing as he realized that he already knew the answer. "Because you're my wife and you know me so well it's scary."

"Don't you worry, Husband of Mine," Hilda reassured. "You've had plenty of quality time with her: I doubt you'll be strangers when you return. Plus, we're both on parental leave so you won't be going AWOL. _Plus_, my mother will be here later tonight from Duluth to help with the baby…whose name you _still_ haven't picked."

That was the magic of Hilda: she was difficult to read. Always keeping him guessing with her smile and friendly presence that _could_ be genuine…or could be masking censure of the highest order. How she confused him sometimes, and how he loved her and would do so forever.

Just as he was internally praising her beneficence, he heard her begin a list of curtailments that really should not have surprised him.

"Four conditions, however. One, you're limited to forty-eight hours from the moment you leave this room. Two, no getting killed. Get yourself killed and I'll serve you the divorce papers myself in whatever afterlife you find yourself. Then I'll spend the rest of my life mourning my biggest loss."

The scary aspect was that he believed her capable of such a feat…

"Three," she continued, "we are to be in regular contact, you, me and the baby while you are away, just to remind ourselves how much we love one another. Four…"

She paused as her smile contorted into a wicked grin. "Four, you're not putting one _foot_ out of this room until _that_ baby has a name!"

* * *

So…

One christening, some hurried travel preparation and a road journey that included three speeding tickets and several cups of coffee later, Arnie found himself in discussion with Arnold and someone named Brainy in some brownstone in Hillwood.

"So…you named the kid 'Helle', huh?" queried Arnold.

"Mm," mulled Brainy, "Danish variant of 'Helga'. Nice name. _But it still doesn't explain how you found this place!_"

Arnie gave Brainy's presence the briefest of consideration before turning back to Arnold: "Is he always like this?"

And for the first time in years, Arnold was forced into a mediation role. "Nothing personal. He doesn't trust cops, is all."

Arnie then turned back to Brainy, studying him briefly before the recognition hit him. "_You!_ You're that four-eyed creep from PS 118!"

"Oh, like you're one to talk, you fucking weirdo!" Brainy retaliated. "How's the lint collection coming along? And how come you're not snorting after every other sentence? Did you finally ditch the coke habit?"

Arnie was not one to anger easily, no matter what verbal barbs were thrown his way. By way of an answer, he simpered at Brainy as he raised his left hand to show off his wedding band. "What do _you_ think, brother?" he boasted. "I've moved on to better things!"

"Brainy, Arnie! That's enough!" intervened Arnold. "We're on the same side, remember?"

"Doesn't mean we gotta like each other!" Brainy and Arnie answered in unison.

"_OK_, OK! Guys, _focus_!" cried Arnold in a stentorian tone than would have garnered attention from almost the entire block were it not for the fact that almost the entire block was either at work or school. At least it garnered the attention of the bickering pair gathered with him. And so he seized the opportunity: "But Arnie, seriously, how _did_ you know to find me here?"

"Foutley, of course! The moment I left, I had him trace your location through your phone."

"Time out!" interrupted a wary Brainy, raising his hand as though seeking his teacher's approval to speak. "Wouldn't you cops need a warrant to track down suspects. Fourth Amendment, remember?"

Arnie didn't even blink as he countered: "Who said he's a suspect? As far as my county is concerned, he's a missing person, so…exigent circumstances, friend." A defeated Brainy let him continue. "Anyway, he gets me a fix on your location. Then…nothing."

"About the time of the cemetery—" Arnold added before being abruptly interrupted.

"Whoa, Coz!" said Arnie sharply. "Did I mention anything about certain events at the cemetery that could make anyone a person of interest to any police officer?"

When he saw Arnold shaking his head, he then turned to Brainy. "Hey Four-Eyes, you hear me say anything about any occurrences at a graveyard?"

"Didn't hear a goddamn thing about a still-open investigation mentioned by a law enforcement officer," confirmed Brainy. "And don't call me 'Four-Eyes'!"

"So please, Coz, no interruptions!" ordered Arnie, before continuing. "So I get to Hillwood, not sure what my next move will be. Then while I'm having breakfast at a diner, Foutley calls and lets me know you're back online. _Plus_, you're not all over the place anymore, so he's able to pinpoint your location…to this specific address. So here I am. So…what's your next step?"

"Not sure yet," conceded Arnold. "I'll have a better idea when Foutley gets back to me."

* * *

The key principle of hacking is to look for a weak point and exploit it for all its worth. The man called Foutley understood this principle all too well as he attempted to find a way into FTI. His best chance would come through one of FTI's most recent acquisitions; they'd most likely be smaller companies and as such have less rigorous IT security.

He was lucky enough to find one such company with a relatively weak firewall which he could breach with little effort. Once in, his luck held as he found that the company's email server had been integrated into FTI's central server. Some more finagling and eventually he found his way undetected into the email account of Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck.

That's when things got interesting.

The most recent mail was a to-and-fro between Scheck and…damn! The domain name established it as originating from the office of San Lorenzo's Presidency! A quick scour through the mail revealed:

> 1) Scheck was looking into exploiting San Lorenzo's seemingly vast mineral and natural resources.
> 
> 2) He cared not one jot about any potential environmental catastrophes.
> 
> 3) Neither did El Presidente of San Lorenzo, seeing as that he stood to pocket a one-billion-dollar payday from this series of transactions, plus a cut from the mining royalties.

Even more damning was a folder containing a recording of a video call in which Scheck broadly outlines his proposal to El Presidente. The mails then must have been to create a trail of sorts and finetune the details.

_Never fails to amaze me how these people can be so bold with such damning evidence_, he mused. _Probably think they'll never be caught_.

Foutley started piecing together what he had read, in combination with what he already knew.

Scheck wanted Arnold dead, _fact_.

Arnold was born in San Lorenzo and lived there for a significant portion of his adolescent and teen years, _fact_.

It, therefore, stood to reason that Scheck was banking on Arnold still having ties with the country of his birth. And from what Foutley knew of Scheck, the man was ruthless and depraved enough to kill a country just to get to Arnold, to force him out of hiding and into a losing confrontation.

Then there was the relative ease with which Foutley had accessed this incriminating documentation: normally at this level, he'd expect much higher-level data encryption. But no…this was left out in the open, so to speak.

This was no careless act, this was deliberate. Someone _wanted_ this to be found. Someone probably figured out that Arnold Shortman had access to a hacker. Not Foutley, of course: he was always careful to cover his tracks. Anyone tracing his line would end up at a remote server in Nababeep, a South African town so remote that not many _South Africans_, let alone the average American, knew where it was.

So, in conclusion: Scheck was setting a trap to lure Arnold out of hiding. Where the trap was to be set... the exchange did not mention. Before signing off, he scrolled down the screen, giving it a cursory scan. Before signing off, he caught sight of an emerging folder named '_Santalov_'.

Santalov? The man in charge of the original attempt on Arnold and Phoebe's lives? What was the connection between him and Scheck, the latter whose banking details he uncovered for Phoebe not two days ago?

His curiosity stimulated, the man called Foutley sifted through the newly uncovered emails, scanning the titles, noting how the dates went back some seventeen years and change. He noted too how these particular emails did not originate from FTI. Instead, they were from a private account held by Vitaly Santalov to his associates. Scheck must have gotten hold of them by being bcc'd in all the emails from a separate private account while he was incarcerated. Foutley deduced that these mails were much later transferred to the FTI server.

The email headings were of particular, chilling interest:

> '_Rewards for helpers'_
> 
> …
> 
> '_Sunset Arms'_
> 
> …
> 
> '_Sunset Arms Building Plans'_
> 
> '_RE: Sunset arms occupants'_
> 
> …
> 
> '_RE: RE: RE: RE: Shortman's friends'_
> 
> …
> 
> '_RE: New girlfriend info and photos'_
> 
> …
> 
> …
> 
> '_RE: RE: RE: Possible insider'_

Oh…

The headings alone sounded incriminating. Scheck was either brazen in the extreme, or a complete moron, for not deleting these mails. Maybe…he could just have been so supremely self-assured in his never being prosecuted for his past actions. Perhaps these were reminders of his triumph over Arnold Shortman.

Foutley had no time to read each mail, so he quickly made copies of them to his PC before logging off while making sure to cover his tracks as thoroughly as he usually did.

He was left now with a dilemma of which of the additional information to disclose to Arnold. Would _this_ knowledge really be power so soon in this situation?

* * *

"Mister Scheck! Mister Scheck!"

The IT minion was escorted into Scheck's office under the watchful gazes and grasps of the burly PMC's serving as part of Scheck's updated security detail. Scheck, from behind his desk motioned for him to be released before addressing him in a curt voice.

"What is it?"

"Mister Scheck, we've had a firewall breach!"

"Oh?" was Scheck's only response. He could see the minion's confusion at his boss's unconcerned reply.

"Mister Scheck, you don't understand! The hacker accessed your email account! Who knows what this person was able to access.

At this mention, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck forced himself to stifle a self-satisfied smile. The IT drone must have noticed, for he followed up: "Mister Scheck, I assure you this is no laughing matter! Whoever did this was even able to copy some of your confidential mails!"

Scheck still had to put on the correct appearance by pretending to be perturbed by the news. "What?" he responded in convincing faux distress. "How did this happen? When?"

The minion then went into a detailed explanation as to how the hacker was able to access the mail server, and of how attempts to track the individual had failed and only led the IT Security and Forensics teams to some flyspeck South African town called Nababeep – they had to google its location, he sheepishly admitted. Scheck maintained his veneer of engrossment while the man droned. He knew of the data breach already; he had ordered it set up, thanks to a PMC whose resumé stated to be a qualified network engineer and internet security expert. Scheck had authorized him temporary access to the FTI network to set up the trap. He knew from Santalov that someone – presumably in cahoots with Arnold Shortman – had obtained bits of information from his late partner.

If the person responsible was still active, then why not take advantage of the situation and leave lying out in the open that for which Arnold Shortman was looking? After all, Shortman was nothing if not predictably resourceful. Odds were good he'd want the inside track to his enemy's plans through whatever means.

He was starting to imagine how Shortman would respond to the plans to destroy his beloved San Lorenzo – not to mention the additional tidbits of info dating back seventeen years – when he realized that the peon was done with his doomsday report and was now awaiting instructions from the boss man.

"Are you still here?" he said to the man in quiet authority. "Get back to your post and solve the problem. You're supposed to be the best in your field, so go out and prove it, or else my organization might not be the best fit for you."

And as the man tripped over his feet in his haste to exit the office, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck felt a sense of self-assurance that he hadn't felt in quite a while. He felt as if he had regained the upper hand over Arnold Shortman.

There was just one last part of the plan that needed his attention as he dialed the number of one of his many remaining resources.

* * *

Usually, an IAB interview being cut short would be met with sighs of relief from the police officer being interviewed. Not so for Detective Mark Vasquez. Through the Rat Squad detective who interviewed Vasquez, Scheck had hinted at a second chance for the detective, a shot at redemption. But from what Vasquez understood about Scheck, redemption always came at a steep price. He was wondering what his atonement would cost.

He wouldn't find out as soon as he left the building, where he found a swarm of reporters waiting for him, to question him on his interview. Even though they were fully aware of the confidential nature of such events. As they caught sight of him and quickly approached with their questions, he just as quickly turned away from them and headed back into the station.

For all intents and purposes, he was trapped. The vultures outside wouldn't disperse for anything less than divine intervention or natural disasters…_maybe_.

"Detective Vasquez!"

A pair of uniformed patrolmen approached him.

"Having trouble leaving, Sir?"

"You have no idea, boys," the tired and pissed-off detective replied. "No fucking idea."

"Sir, would you like if we drive you home? Our car's deep down in the motor pool. We can get you out of here and those reporters won't suspect a thing."

The detective scanned the two patrolmen, both of whom had that innocent, fresh-out-of-the-academy look about them. _Still believe they can make a difference_, he mused scornfully and wagered to himself that their demeanors would change within a year, _tops_.

But still…offer accepted.

Before long, he was seated in the backseat of their Dodge Charger patrol vehicle, together with a mysterious box.

"Sir, I suggest you open that box," spoke the patrolman behind the wheel.

"The boss may believe in second chances, but there's always a price to pay," added his partner.

The price came in the form of a pistol, a .22 High Standard HDM with a sound suppressor integrated into the barrel. Alongside it, a typed note: 'Reporter. 24 Hours.'

Under a different set of circumstances, the detective would have found the job a revolting proposition. This was not a different set of circumstances; the proposition of killing Phoebe Heyerdahl was the polar opposite of revolting, even if he'd need to work on some leads to get a fix of her location. Twenty-four hours was more than sufficient, especially since Shortman was in the wind and she wasn't.

Yeah, _fuck Shortman_. It was Phoebe who ruined the career of Detective Mark Vasquez. It was Phoebe whom he'd enjoy killing the most. Plus, if Shortman had indeed gotten close to Phoebe, then finding and killing her would add to his lifetime of grief and loss. Gleeful thoughts were floating through his mind as he picked up the suppressed weapon and concealed it in his coat.

Detective Mark Vasquez smiled at the proposition. He continued smiling as he was driven undetected out of the building. Not even the midday traffic rush wasn't enough to diminish his smile. It was only when he turned the key to his front door and walked in to see his wife and Phoebe together…only then did his smile disappear.

* * *

Brainy had to shrink at what he was witnessing. Arnie was in sight, on his phone, checking in with his wife and daughter. The conversation with Hilda had been pleasant (read: normal) enough as he confirmed that he had (a) made it safely to Hillwood, (b) located Arnold, and (c) still loved and missed Hilda and Helle very dearly.

Then he went silent momentarily before being informed that Hilda's phone was now being held beside little Helle and suddenly the situation became awkward. Now Brainy was witness to the affectionate cooing and fawning by a man whom no betting person would ever – _ever_ – have thought capable of displaying such levels of expression and emotion.

"It's like a train wreck I can't look away from," Brainy whispered to Arnold, who nodded in distracted agreement. Arnold, meanwhile, was between umpteen attempts at reaching Phoebe. He did not like the sour note on which their most recent call had ended. Yes, her move was extremely reckless but right now all that mattered was her safety and his knowledge thereof.

Eventually, Arnie ended the call, then saw the look of shock and awe that was Brainy's expression. Knowing fully why the weirdo from PS 118 was in such shock and awe, he said plainly to him: "Fuck you. One day you'll have kids of your own, then you'll understand." He then took a longer glance at Brainy before amending his statement: "OK, maybe not."

They were still at Brainy's residence because Arnold was still waiting for Foutley's feedback in order to determine a plan of action, for which assistance from his well-meaning cousin had now become non-negotiable. It wasn't that Arnie couldn't be useful; quite the contrary. As one of the county's top snipers, his marksmanship skills outshone Arnold's by a significant margin. Nonetheless, he lacked Arnold's battlefield experience. Plus, Arnie had a family waiting for him and the absolute last thing Arnold wanted was to deliver news to Hilda that her husband and father of her daughter would not be returning home.

Arnold had made that much known to his cousin before the latter's call home, who had then rebutted: "Coz, you're not the only one who lost family. They killed Aunt Stella and Uncle Miles, Grandpa Phil and Grandma Gertie. _I_ lost family too on that day, so this is my fight as much as yours. It was just luck that I was stuck at home with a cold on…_that_ day…and my folks chose to stay and take care of me."

And that was the current Arnie: if there were any positives to be had from the Sunset Arms incident, he was the embodiment of almost all of them. The trauma and loss of the event had spurred the aloof, antisocial, permanently uncaring adolescent into eventually becoming the devoted, fiercely loyal man whom Arnold was now so very proud to call family.

Affable too, as even Brainy, who over the years seemed to have developed a blanket distrust for all but a select few police officers, was beginning to cultivate a rapport with Arnie despite the two's constant bickering.

Arnold's ringing phone snapped him back to the present. It wasn't Phoebe returning at least one of his calls, it was Foutley. Arnold forced himself to put Phoebe's matter on hold as he took Foutley's call.

"Foutley!"

"Arnold."

"I'm putting you on speaker. Got the Sheriff and another associate here."

"Another associate, you say? Are you seeing someone behind my back?"

"No time for pleasantries!" Brainy cut in. "You got anything we can use?"

"Let me first say this. Good call, Arnold! It appears our friend, Mister Scheck, is indeed scheming to flush you out."

"How so?" asked Arnie.

The man called Foutley immediately launched into what he uncovered regarding Scheck's plans for exploiting San Lorenzo's natural resources to its terminal detriment, with the assistance of El Presidente. The trio in Brainy's residence stood in shocked silence at the revelations.

"Son of a bitch wants to kill a country just to get at Arnold?" Brainy asked in disbelief, the true scope of Scheck's depravity having just sunk in.

"Not just any country," added Arnold in subdued bitterness. "My birth country."

"That's the gist of it," confirmed Foutley.

Then from Brainy: "Foutley…is it? Did you have a hard time finding this data? Did you struggle to breach whatever systems you breached."

"No, now that you mention it. I got them straight from the FTI mail server, though it wasn't difficult at all to breach the security. It was almost…too easy…like they _wanted_ someone to find the data."

Arnie then weighed in. "He's trying to set a trap!" He then turned to Arnold: "Get you to think with your heart and not your mind. He lures you out to try and stop him, right into an ambush!"

"_Another_ one!" added Brainy as though the concept was no longer a fresh one. "He tried…what…fifteen mercs last time. What are the odds he'll bring at least double that number?"

"Assuming that's the case," Arnold postulated, "he wouldn't want to have a showdown at FTI HQ. It'll have to be somewhere open and remote. Hey Foutley, you've given us the broad strokes of Scheck's proposal. Any finer details?"

"Uh…let me check." The trio in Hillwood then heard Foutley's um's and ah's as he gave the mails more thorough scrutiny. "Interesting," he eventually responded. "There are some vague mentions of establishing a shipping lane from Puerto Clara to Hillwood via the Panama Canal, ostensibly to create jobs in shipping in both cities. Wait a moment…"

More um's and ah's, then…

"Scheck mentions that he'll personally be inspecting the docks at Hillwood Harbour…within the next three days…to see how viable they are for his plans. He promises to get back to El Presidente by Friday."

"So _he's_ the bait this time!" concluded Arnold.

"Which means he'll also have the home ground advantage," warned Arnie. "Harbour on lockdown. Hostiles all over the place, probably every man he can spare. Orders to terminate with extreme prejudice."

"Hence, the reason obtaining the files was so easy," Foutley realized.

"So what now?" Brainy asked on behalf of everyone else who wasn't Arnold, causing those in the room to turn towards the master strategist.

"OK," paused the ex-soldier. "Foutley, you need to send copies of all the mails you found to a man called Big Gino. He's working to undermine Scheck's support base, so this will be extra ammo for him."

"Big Gino?" asked Foutley as if he heard incorrectly. "As in Gino Giovinazzo, a wannabe crime boss from Hillwood?"

"And also our guarantee that Scheck's demise doesn't lead to all-out gang warfare," completed Arnold.

"Aha! The devil we know, correct? I'm on it!"

"Tell him it's compliments of the boy scout. And see what you can do about satellite surveillance over Hillwood Harbour. No way will my drone be big enough."

"Geez, Arnold! I'm not a miracle-worker! Not on _such_ short notice!"

Whereupon Brainy chimed in: "Don't worry, I've got this. Got a guy who can make it happen at a moment's notice. I just need to say the word."

"You can do that?" The surprise and relief were clear in Foutley's voice.

"Oh, and Foutley?" Arnold added. "Send copies to Eduardo in San Lorenzo." He then gave the mail address of his adoptive father, now a well-respected community leader in San Lorenzo with plenty of political and popular sway. "He needs to know how El Presidente is planning to sell out his country and his people. He'll know what to do. Hell, send copies to the WWF and Greenpeace while you're at it. We need to turn the screws on him, big time!"

"All very good Arnold, but what will you be doing while I'm plying my trade?" asked Foutley.

"Preparing for the inevitable," Arnold replied enigmatically. "And Foutley, thanks for everything."

He then ended the call and announced to those still gathered, particularly to Arnie: "OK, let me get my gear, then we'll be on our way."

No sooner had Arnold left to collect his items, when Arnie's phone rang. It was Foutley, who immediately went into an urgent whisper. "Sheriff, if Arnold's still there with you, find some reason to leave the room."

"It's fine. You can talk," assured Arnie.

So Foutley did. He mentioned the mails from the Santalov folder. He mentioned the scope of the planning that went into their Sunset Arms scheme. Finally, he mentioned the contents of the mail titled '_RE: RE: RE: Possible insider'. _Arnie recognized a name relayed by Foutley. He had this to say to Foutley: "Foutley, keep this info between us for now. The last thing we need now is for my cousin to be distracted and confused, you got that?"

Brainy picked up the urgency in Arnie's whisper and so piped in at an appropriate volume: "What's going on?"

Arnie's answer was to look at Brainy and then order Foutley: "Send a copy to our guy here as well." He focused again on Brainy. "Hey, Four-Eyes, what's your email address?"

Brainy wasn't fully aware of the circumstances but he complied by giving his address, which Arnie relayed to Foutley before ending the call.

To Brainy he said: "Read it and you'll understand. Just don't tell Arnold. Not yet, anyway."

"What's this about?" asked Brainy, his voice reflecting even more concern.

"Looks like we have one thing in common. We're both looking out for our boy."

Soon Arnold was back in the, having changed back into his now somewhat tattered and soiled battle ensemble from the previous night. If he had heard any of the words spoken between Brainy and Arnie, he was putting on a supreme act of willful ignorance.

"OK, Arnie. Let's go prepare ourselves for whatever and whenever." He announced to his cousin.

"Oh? And how exactly are we getting to wherever we're heading?" queried Arnie, never at a loss at how Arnold could take charge of a group without being obnoxious about it.

"You're driving, of course. You _said_ you're here to help…and my wheels are someplace else."

A beaten Arnie conceded defeat and the pair departed. Or at least they _would_ have, had a news announcement on Brainy's TV made itself heard and caught the attention of Arnold, who moved to watch the subsequent report with Brainy and Arnie in curious tow.

"_I'm currently in front of the police station_," stated a reporter in dire need of either extra-strength coffee or a medically-induced coma, "_where disgraced Detective Mark Vasquez was last seen following his disastrous press conference earlier this morning which compromised the investigation into what appears to be a gang-related shooting at the cemetery. It is understood by this reporter that the detective was being questioned by Hillwood PD's Internal Affairs Bureau. The meeting appeared to have concluded some twenty minutes ago, as the detective was seen trying to exit the station._"

Footage showing Vasquez being accosted by reporters after his exit had now taken over the screen.

"_As you can see,_" the reporter spoke over the chaotic footage, "_Detective Vasquez was unwilling to answer any of our questions, and promptly returned inside the station. His present location remains unknown and a spokesperson for this station informed reporters that Detective Vasquez is no longer in the building. More as the story develops. Back to you, Anthony._"

Twenty minutes…ago..?

Arnold's mind was racing as his dread manifested itself in a single utterance: "Phoebe!"

Vasquez had made his way undetected out of the station. Arnold _knew_ it, he _sensed_ it: the detective was too clever and resourceful to be pinned at a location by a group of hack reporters. And now he was on a collision course the one woman who fucked up his entire career in a matter of minutes!

He had to…

He had to…

"Arnie, get your car ready…_NOW!_" No time for manners, not with Phoebe at risk!

Arnie sensed his cousin's grave seriousness and move without question to fulfill his instructions.

Arnold then turned to Brainy: "Brainy, you have ten seconds to tell me where the fuck that detective lives!"

* * *

"Olga, she's lying!"

Mark Vasquez could only witness his already shitty day becoming even worse. He'd craved the sanctuary of his home when he left the station, and just when he thought he'd reached his refuge…well, it figured.

"Oh I'm not sure, Dear" answered Olga in a softly menacing tone. "And do you mind terribly closing the door and stepping a bit closer to me?"

He complied. What a terrible feeling of frustration it was: having his target so tantalizingly within range and not being able to a goddamn thing about it.

"OK. Now what?"

"_Now_, we get some clarity!" Olga answered with renewed theatrical flair. Then, as she motioned towards Phoebe: "Beginning with her!"

_Her!_

"Olga, I told you she's lying!"

"No, let me tell _you_. This woman here…I butted her on the head with this weapon, then kicked her in the stomach and ribs – as you can see by her somewhat bedraggled appearance – but she never changed her story. So I'm thinking, you know, there might be some truth to what she's saying. Starting with your involvement with her."

Olga then recited to him what Phoebe had confessed to her regarding the infidelity: Mark Vasquez was rendered anemic at the mention of each detail.

"Olga, I was on a case…we _both_ were! Things just happened, then…they spiraled out of our control." He was clutching feverishly for an explanation and could see that his wife wasn't buying it."

"Mark, one night with her would have been bad enough. But three months? Behind my back? Making every effort to cover your tracks?" Her anger rose with each sentence, then she switched her tone to that of a kindly kindergarten teacher sweetly chastising an errant toddler: "I don't know, but that suggests an element of premeditation, don't you think?"

_Oh, she's enjoying this_, thought Vasquez. _They both are_. Right this instant, he was ruing what a bitch karma could be.

"Now let's talk about your finances, shall we?" Olga continued. "I always felt that you weren't telling me everything about our financial situation. Take your student debt for instance."

_Uh-oh!_

"You're a college graduate, so how come I've never once heard you complain about paying off your student loan debt? Did you have someone take care of that for you?"

_Shit, she also knows how Santalov bought my services._

But he couldn't stand idly and let her rail on him. Two sides to every tale, or some shit like that.

"What would you know of student debt, Miss Scholarships-Up-The-Wazoo. Some of us have to _pay _for our higher learning!"

He saw his wife flinch at that statement. There was his opportunity to turn the situation around!

But…

"Olga, don't fall for his mind games!" urged Phoebe as she broke her heretofore rapt silence. "He's trying to trick you into lowering your guard!"

It was then that Mark Vasquez was reminded that Phoebe was a Psych major like him. He was also reminded of one of their pillow talk sessions when he boasted about graduating Cum Laude, only to be deflated when Phoebe disclosed her having graduated _Summa_ Cum Laude. Plus she was siding with Olga.

_Well, she may know Psychology, but I know my wife_.

His brain was formulating a strategy. A risky strategy that would require split-second timing and no small measure of luck, but he had no other choice.

_Change of plan_, his mind told him. _Try to piss Olga off_.

"Yeah well, I never heard you complain about living beyond my paygrade!"

"What was that, Mark?" Olga queried in a tone daring him to repeat his statement to the armed woman with his life in her trigger finger. "Have you grown a spine all of a sudden?"

Vasquez was undiscouraged. "You heard me! You've been benefiting from the payoffs as much as me. The vacations, designer clothes, fancy restaurants! Hell, even the operas and concerts! Where were your complaints back then?"

"Olga, don't fall in his trap!" Phoebe's voice was more urgent, approaching a panicked state.

"Shit, even your piano that you love _so, so_ much! Remember how your eyes lit up when you first laid eyes on it? Not _once_ did you ask how a cop could afford a brand new Grotrian; you just jumped in and started playing!"

He saw the doubt creeping into Olga's expression; she was second-guessing herself.

_Keep going._

"Olga, stay focussed!" Phoebe was still in his wife's corner. Unfortunately, Olga heeded Phoebe's advice, took a deep breath and recomposed herself.

"And what about Joey?"

"What about him?" Vasquez had taken on a much more brazen tone that he hoped would continue riling up Olga. "Yeah, Santalov paid my student loan debt! Yes, I worked for him! And it was a good arrangement! Fudge the odd record so that someone gets off on a technicality. Report to him on rival bosses. Solve some cherrypicked cases involving people who aren't playing ball!" He then paused, to take in the look of shock on his wife's face before proceeding in a much more sinister voice: "Send any clean cops into ambushes if they get too close to the boss's operations…"

"You heartless bastard!" wailed Olga. "Joey was your best friend! And you killed him as surely as pulling the trigger yourself!"

"And Drinkwater, too?" asked Phoebe in nervous accusation. "Was he getting too close as well?"

"He was just too clever for his own damn good!" Vasquez replied in a voice no longer hindered by remorse.

He now saw how fidgety Phoebe was becoming, and so pushed Olga further. "And here you are, living comfortably off these activities. You're in trouble too, my love! You've become an accessory now."

"_Innocent_, unwilling, uninvolved accessory, _after_ the fact!" Phoebe was now doing her damndest to keep Olga focussed. "No DA will prosecute you, Olga!"

"Yeah," added Vasquez. "All you'd have to do is to cop to an insanity plea. Look how it helped you against your father!"

Olga flinched again. Her eyes then narrowed. "Don't fucking tempt me, Mark! You're on thin enough ice as it stands!" She had no idea she was almost exactly where he wanted her despite having Phoebe on her side. _One more push_, he thought. _Just one last push!_

"What's there to tempt?" he challenged. "You're fucked in the head, that's your problem. It's always been your problem. You're so full of loose wiring you need a shit ton of meds just to function! You're damaged goods!" He saw her anger boiling over. He saw Phoebe trying hopelessly to calm her down. "You know what your problem is? You can't handle adversity! Anytime something doesn't go your way, you fall to pieces. Pathetic, isn't it? All that brainpower, not one bit of mental strength!"

"No, Olga!" Phoebe butted in. "You're better than that! You're much stronger than that!"

"Yes!" sneered Vasquez. "So says the woman who wronged us by spreading her legs!" He then turned his eyes briefly towards Phoebe: "Who the fuck are you to claim moral superiority, you fucking whore?"

Olga seemed to absorb his words as her rage started drowning out more and more of Phoebe's frenzied reassurances.

"Mark, I'm fucking warning you!" growled Olga as she raised the shotgun at him and steadied her aim.

"Go ahead and do it! Prove that you'll always be as psycho as your batshit crazy sister, anyway! Only a headcase like you would try to idolize a sociopathic, certifiable loon of a 'baby sister' like her!" He made a point to imitate her high-pitched timbre when he mentioned 'baby sister'.

"_FUCK YOU_!" shouted Olga as she squeezed the trigger, oblivious to Phoebe's manic pleas for calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Duluth wasn't chosen at random. It takes me back to 1985 when as a seven-year-old South African laaitie who knew nothing about the world beyond my neighborhood, I became acquainted with Looney Tunes for the first time. One such cartoon was Chuck Jones's Kiss Me Cat, in which a character references his "Grandma Esmerelda come all the way from Duluth!" It would be much later until I finally found out where the heck Duluth is.
> 
> Author's Note #2: The scenes with Arnold, Arnie, and Brainy were subject to numerous rewrites, chiefly because I realized that I had Helga's two suitors plus the boy she was pursuing, in the same room (albeit as adults). So I decided to have fun with that development, by having them bickering and playing off one another, without straying into full-blown comedy. They needed to show their serious sides as the situation demanded, to temper the humor.
> 
> Author's Note #3: Staying with the trio, I wanted their second scene to play out as a single-take film scene, so I deliberately wrote it with constant POV shifts that flowed smoothly into one another. Hopefully, in doing so, I succeeded in conveying the buzz of activity and discussion and exchange of ideas at the location.
> 
> Author's Note #4: As for Foutley, I didn't want him to be a deus ex machina who would magically produce the necessary information from behind the scenes. The technique employed by him was explained to me by a friend who works in IT security, and I incorporated it into the story.
> 
> And finally, the Spotify list that most influenced the writing of this chapter:
> 
> How I Could Just Kill A Man - Cypress Hill  
Calling All Stations - Genesis  
Why So Serious - Hans Zimmer  
Shells - Health  
The Bitter End - Placebo  
Princes of the Universe - Queen  
Save Yourself - Stabbing Westward  
Leave Home - The Chemical Brothers  
I Won't Back Down - Tom Petty


	19. Because…Family Matters (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Arnold, Brainy and Arnie conspire to keep tabs on Scheck. Vasquez gets a proposition he'd ordinarily have abhorred. Phoebe fails to defuse a tense situation involving Olga and Vasquez.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

Gino Giovinazzo, a.k.a. Big Gino, heard his inbox ping, signaling the arrival of a new mail. He was initially skeptical when he didn't recognize the sender, but his hopes were raised upon seeing the heading: '_Compliments of the Boy Scout_'.

He opened the mail.

He opened the attachments.

He read the attachments.

He grinned in devilish anticipation.

The bits about Scheck wanting to devastate San Lorenzo didn't interest him much. That was a foreign matter, to be committed on foreign soil outside of Uncle Sam's jurisdiction. What really made him cackle on the inside were the mails detailing the prep work surrounding the Sunset Arms incident, as well as the aftermath.

He paid special attention to those.

He read each one of them.

He read them again.

And again.

Once more.

And, just to make absolutely, 100% certain, he read them again.

He clicked back to the main body of the mail. Whoever sent this mail, must have anticipated that the receiver would jump straight to the attachments. As such, whoever sent this mail had written in the main body:

"_Yes indeed, the metadata of all the attachments has been properly verified. You're welcome. _"

This was it: evidence of a conspiracy by Scheck to commit domestic terrorism and proof of the conspirators following through with the plan! Proof that Scheck's powerful government connections had indeed aligned themselves with a domestic terrorist.

This was it: the crucial leverage he required.

This was it: his chance to get back at the fuckers who killed his family and stole his home and his youth.

"Sir, is everything alright?" asked Myron from his nearby desk. He and Big Gino had successfully concluded the meeting with the Canadian smugglers, and the articulate hulk called Myron was finalizing the distribution logistics, as well as determining an appropriate pricing model to sell the incoming medication for as low and as profitably as possible.

"Myron," announced Big Gino in a business voice doing its best to mask his glee, "come look at this, then tell me if everything is alright!"

Myron did as told, and minutes later he too spoke in understated joy: "Sir, this is the leverage we require over the gentlemen. Between this, the bank statements and the other correspondences…I do believe that the appropriate term would be 'we have them by the balls'."

"Language, Myron!" Gino responded in mock disapproval. "Now do you see why I said we should wait? The boy scout, Myron, the fucking boy scout! He just has this goddamn gift of getting people to help him out with whatever he's up to!"

"Does this mean I may resume the cold-calling, Sir?" asked an expectant Myron.

"You mean you haven't started yet?" was Big Gino's reply, to which Myron eagerly beat a path to the desk bedecked with the cellular phones.

Big Gino, for his part, was not yet done. He knew a final showdown was brewing between the boy scout and Scheck. He knew that Scheck was trying to lure the boy scout out of hiding and that the former would probably throw an army at the latter. He knew too that the boy scout had not checked in with his guy, whom Gino had said could help.

From his desk, Big Gino dialed his guy.

"Boss, anything you need?" the voice on the other end replied.

"You receive a visit from a guy with a weird football for a head yet?"

"Can't say I have, Boss. This guy causing you grief? You want him taken care of?"

"Idiot, this guy did the whole fucking organization the biggest fucking favor we've ever been granted. So if you get a visit from a football dome, you treat him like fucking royalty!"

"Yes, Boss!" the man was quick to respond apologetically. "Does that include…?" he left the second question unasked as if he was about to commit a major blasphemy by completing it. He recomposed himself within moments, however: "Does that mean I let…_her_…handle him?"

"Damn right," confirmed Big Gino. "Anything he wants, no questions. You got it?"

* * *

Ten minutes ago, the man named Smith received an encrypted call from Brainy.

The mole had called out of nowhere and announced that he would require satellite surveillance over Hillwood Harbour for the next three days. Real-time, high def, heat vision…infrared too, if possible.

The first request merely made Smith go apoplectic; the second set of parameters gave him a full-on conniption. Smith then launched into a tirade on the short notice of Brainy's request. It was only when Brainy informed him of Scheck's current activities and intentions that Smith came on board, and fully at that. Quoth the older gentleman: "Why the fuck didn't you say so in the first place!?"

Then, after some contemplation: "High def, you say? I know a woman at NASA who can help you. I call her, she can have one of their satellites at the ready over the harbor, but she'll need time to change its orbit. Maybe an hour, hour-and-a-half, tops. Off the books, of course. After that, you've got your three days. _And don't fucking blow it!_"

That was ten minutes ago.

Smith was still at his desk, contemplating the events that had led him to exactly this position. Plus the events that would form the aftermath. Arnold and Scheck were heading for a collision, and the fallout would be ugly whoever came out victorious. If Smith could have intervened directly against Scheck, he'd do it without hesitation. The problem was that Scheck, even in his weakened state, still had the juice to go several levels above Smith's head and potentially end his department, his career, maybe even his life.

Suddenly he felt an onset of guilt for allowing Arnold Shortman and Phoebe Heyerdahl to be pawns in this wicked game he was forbidden from playing. With a heavy heart, he allowed himself to hope against hope that they and Brainy would make it out of this shitstorm alive.

* * *

_Bean…bag…rounds…_

Detective Mark Vasquez was flat on his lounge floor, on his stomach. Intermittently coming close to blacking out. An all-encompassing spasm having replaced his abdominal muscles. His lower organs: pressing against his spine. His lungs: flattened into a vacuum which he was trying to refill without drawing attention to himself.

_This is non-lethal..?_

Being shot was a mixed blessing for him. Sure, he now knew that 'non-lethal' didn't necessarily mean 'painless'. On the other hand, his incapacitated state had allowed him to hear Olga dropping the shotgun and running out of the room in horrified tears with Phoebe in tow. Both of them must have assumed he was dead because neither had checked him for entry wounds. He was thus granted time and space to writhe in agony as he recovered in silence. Next, he heard Olga throwing up in the bathroom, in between hysterical sobs. Phoebe was still with her, offering…whatever…reassurances, rationalizations…strategy? Who knew? Who cared?

_The gamble paid off…kind of…_

It all gave him time to reflect on an amazing instance of foresight on his part. Over the past three months when he became involved with Phoebe, he noticed how Olga started unraveling ever so slightly. Nothing big: a tic here and there; the occasional outburst. Enough to suggest that she was occasionally going off her meds. Enough for him to reconsider keeping the sawn-off shotgun – which he kept for self-defense and which both he and Olga knew how to operate – in the house. Then word around Hillwood PD started going around of bean bag rounds being implemented as a new non-lethal method of dealing with perpetrators and suspects, all in the name of scoring much-needed PR points with the public. Mark Vasquez was so intrigued by the idea that he looked into it, before eventually switching the shells of his home-defense weapon with those selfsame rounds. Best of both worlds: protection against intruders; insurance should his wife commit fully to the deep end.

While mulling over his bad good fortune, he heard the footfalls leaving the bathroom, but not heading back towards him. Olga, sounding suddenly strident; Phoebe, asking some question or another. _Mm_, sounds like they were headed to his study.

_What the hell, let them_, he thought as he felt his breathing – indeed, _all_ his vital signs – stabilize. _As soon as I recover, they're dead anyway_.

"Hey, Mark! Ten minutes before you _DI-I-I-E-E-E_!"

The voice delivering the loud message had a jubilant, mean-spirited melodic edge to it. From where was it coming, and how come the women weren't reacting to it? The speaker seemed to sense his confusion and continued: "Oh, come on, Brother-In-Law. Have you forgotten all you've learned from that dossier about your dearly departed sister-in-law?"

He moved his head in the voice's direction and…stood in front of him was a girl with whose mind he had become most acquainted over the past twenty-four or so hours. That blond girl, pigtails, wearing pink and white. Big eyes, prominent overbite, equally prominent unibrow.

"Helga?" he gasped in recognition. "You're supposed to be dead!" he found himself shouting, though his voice was also attracting nobody's attention.

"Well, doi!" was her unperturbed response. "Now we know how you made detective!"

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Just watching you make a jackass of yourself one last time," she casually remarked. "It's all so satisfying to see the look on the face of anyone who gets their ass kicked after underestimating my beloved and my best friend."

The detective sneered: "Ha! They're just two people against a giant fucking organization!"

The apparition had started traipsing about the room, oblivious to his threats and determination. "And you believe that gives you an advantage," she stated – that was not a question! – as she continued in her playful gait as if his opinions and insights didn't matter.

"He may have been able to rally you to beat the fifth graders in football and baseball," Vasquez continued. "Big fucking whoop! How did that translate against guys with guns and explosives?"

"Well…admittedly it's a far cry from the days when I had to escape on a tandem bicycle from a troupe of angry clowns," she sounded as if she was conceding that he had a point, although she was casually and noncommittedly picking at her teeth. Her overall body language gave no indication of her taking him seriously.

"And look what happened when _pro's_ came gunning for you! You never stood a chance! Tell me how you're boyfriend's never-say-die attitude helped you then. He showed his true colors that day: 100% pure pussy!"

With her body language, the otherworldly being continued not taking him seriously. She was done picking her teeth and had moved on to an ear.

"See what I mean?" began Helga's spirit nonchalantly. "When he's down, you think that's the end of it. But he always gets up, finds a way to come on top. _Or_…he inspires others to find a way." As she extolled these virtues, her tone became more swooning as she capped off her statement, eyelids aflutter, with: "What a guy..!"

"But he's not here!" snarled the downed detective.

The vision of Helga remained unaffected: "He doesn't have to be. You'll still be dead in…" whereupon the imaginary being reached behind her back to produce a pocket watch which she briefly studied, "…eight minutes and forty-three seconds!"

Before playfully adding: "Compliments of Helga G. Pataki.." then switching to a more sinister, demonic tone while retaining her youthful appearance, "…_WHO HATES YOU!_"

That last sentence jerked him back to consciousness, where he felt that his abdominal spasm had subsided enough for him to try standing up. It was a struggle, but…success, as he drew the gifted HDM and slowly made his way toward the women's activity. If that freak was right, and he was destined to die soon – which he wasn't, hell no! – then there were two others taking the ride with him.

* * *

Detective Mark Vasquez's silent recovery and the imaginary argument went unnoticed by Olga and Phoebe.

The former had thought that she had shot her dirtbag husband dead, and her disbelief at her action manifested in uncontrollable sobbing and overwhelming queasiness that made her drop the weapon and bolt for the bathroom. Phoebe quickly followed her in support. After Olga was done with her reverse peristalsis, Phoebe was there to help her by offering whatever assurances she could.

"Olga, _Olga_," said Phoebe frantically while trying to remain the more rational of the two. Admittedly, that endeavor was becoming more difficult by the minute.

"Olga, listen! _Listen_!" she repeated. "What happened back there…that was self-defense! Your husband snapped after being disgraced, then wanted to take it out on you! You had no choice, Olga!"

But Olga, done vomiting in disgust, was too preoccupied with washing her face at the basin. "Olga, are you _listening_?" Phoebe cried out as she grabbed Olga by the shoulders and spun her around so that they were facing each other.

"None of this was your fault!" Phoebe continued insisting, her voice bordering on anger, "_None_ of this!"

But Olga's shakiness spoke of one who couldn't – or wouldn't – be convinced of any innocence.

"You had no choice, Olga," Phoebe continued, although at this point even she was wondering whom she was trying to convince. "It was self-defense, either you or him, do or die!"

"**_You're thinking in terms of truth and justice."_**

Suddenly, those words echoed inside her brain. The words Arnold spoke in the car on their way to Hillwood. As if truth and justice were hindrances instead of virtues. _Oh shit!_

"**_You may even have to forgo your journalistic integrity."_**

More of Arnold's words of wisdom. Was that what she was doing right this moment? Did he see a situation like this one coming?

"…**_I absolutely will not be forced into committing any crimes..."_**

She had protested vehemently against Arnold's assertions. Yet here she was, herself committing a felony. Urging a killer to lie to the police. An accessory, a co-conspirator. Harboring, aiding and abetting. _Oh my god!_

Olga, however, paid no attention to Phoebe's inner turmoil. She wore a blank expression as she looked into the mirror. Then, an abrupt expression of curiosity. "How did he know?"

Olga's simple question snapped Phoebe out of her self-doubt if only to query the former's sudden question. "How did he know _what_, Olga?"

Olga didn't register either Phoebe's presence or her question; she simply repeated: "How did he _know_?"

With that, she took off, out the bathroom, towards the back of the house. Her stride was single-minded, and Phoebe once again found herself in tow, calling after Olga, wanting to know what had piqued her interest. Olga headed to a study, which Phoebe surmised was Mark's given that the door was closed to deter unwanted company.

"He'd always claim to be working on cases here," explained Olga. "Always confidential, no entry." Some measure of stability was returning to her voice.

More than a study, the room seemed more like his sanctuary in the house in the same way that the piano Mark had mentioned was Olga's. Spacious desk, bookshelves containing literary works and various reference books, covering two walls. Modern-looking PC with printer. But on the desk…_holy shit! _On the desk was an open folder, its contents spread across the surface. Transcripts and reports and psych evaluations, all pertaining to Helga Geraldine Pataki.

The women were aghast at the revelation. Phoebe had known of Helga's visits to Doctor Bliss, both before and after San Lorenzo, but not of how deep-rooted her troubles were.

"That bastard!" spat Olga. "So _this_ is how he knew how to bring Helga into the conversation!"

"And how he knew how to corrupt her memories to bait Arnold," added Phoebe.

"Well, one out of two ain't bad," the voice at the door startled them.

They turned in shock to see a pained Mark Vasquez, smiling self-assuredly while pointing a suppressed pistol their way.

He then answered a question both of them were moments from asking: "Bean bag rounds, Olga." Then, in reaction to her surprised look: "What, you think I'm stupid enough to load live shells with a nutjob like you in the house?"

Then to Phoebe, he gave a cocksure snarl: "You may know Psychology, but _I_ know my wife."

* * *

The car was a blue 2006 Chrysler 300C, the SRT8 Hemi model to be precise. And it was tearing through Hillwood's midday traffic, lights flashing and siren blaring. The car was Arnie's personal vehicle, and so far the lights-and-siren ensemble was having the desired effect: giving fellow road users the impression of an unmarked Hillwood PD vehicle and making them give way without fuss. Beside him, in the front passenger seat, Arnold. Doing a brass check on his Glock, not knowing what to expect once they reached their destination.

A brief assessment of his preparedness did not look promising as he said to Arnie: "Eight in the Glock, one mag left. Plus the Black Widow. What are you carrying in case things go south"

"Super Redhawk on me and the McMillan in the trunk," replied Arnie without taking his eyes off the road.

_Shit_, cursed Arnold. Not really suited for close quarters. He'd have to take point on this one…

Mere minutes prior, Brainy had divulged the detective's address and Arnold had rushed to join Arnie in the vehicle, where he fed the address into Arnie's satnav to be shown the location, a new suburban residential area situated about ten miles outside of Hillwood proper. _Sign of the times_, he reckoned, _people working in the city while living a world away from it in the surrounding suburbs_. Before Arnold could yell for Arnie to get going, the latter was already in the process of shredding the rear tires mid-launch.

Arnie's driving style suggested a deep affinity with and an intimate understanding of his vehicle as he eschewed precision driving in favor of using the ample brute power and torque at his disposal to slide the 300C around the corners at any given opportunity and floor it anywhere there was an open road.

Regardless of Arnie's speed, regardless of his driving prowess, both he and Arnold sat worried that it wouldn't be enough. Though not one word was spoken between the occupants, they were united in one thought: '_Please let us make it on time…_'

* * *

"I consider myself a fair person," claimed Mark Vasquez, "so I'll be offering you ladies a choice. One headshot each. Either you turn around and feel nothing, or you stare down the barrel and see it coming. Your choice."

Olga's quickening breath gave away her shock at what he intended to do. "Mark…why..?"

"I was intending to deal only with our guest, but then you _had_ to learn the truth and become a loose end!" He was relishing how his soon-to-be late wife was trembling at his words. "Plus," he added, "didn't you just shoot me, and cap it off with a big 'FUCK YOU'?" He gave it his best attempt to imitate Olga's voice on the 'FUCK YOU'.

He then saw how regret had joined the fear etched on her face, and he loved it. "Pity I now have to kill two fine pieces of ass like you two."

"Mark, wait!"

It was Phoebe now, having her turn at dissuading him. "That shotgun blast could not have gone unheard! Surely the police are on their way?"

At which Mark Vasquez scornfully remarked: "Ha! Shows what you know! We're in a suburb miles away from Hillwood proper, in an insulated house with all the doors and windows closed. Plus, I spent a small fortune soundproofing it because the HOA kept complaining about the noise whenever Olga plaid her piano. _Plus_, right this moment, everyone else, including those HOA bastards, is either at work or school. I'll be long gone by the time anyone suspects anything."

With that, Mark Vasquez made a motion to hold for applause, satisfied with the quality of his explanation.

When he heard none, he concluded with: "But now...the time has come, the walrus said." This was a crack at Olga and her theatrics when she had her weapon trained on him earlier. "Now, who shall be first?" With that, he raised the pistol. With that, any lucky break for which the women were hoping…manifested itself.

The motion of raising the pistol caused Mark Vasquez's abdominal muscles to seize once more, and his resultant flinch offered Phoebe the precious fractions of a second she needed to make her move.

Quickly, she rushed Vasquez, grabbing hold of the gun with her left hand, pointing the weapon away from her while using her right fist to strike him repeatedly on his forearm. She was aiming for the nerve cluster just below the elbow fold, trying to force his gun hand to spasm open involuntarily. _Yes!_ His grip on the weapon loosened enough for her to pry it away from him. Not that it would help her, for he appeared to have recovered from the initial abdominal spasm. He sent a vicious left hook her way which connected against her cheek and sent her reeling backward, sent her glasses flying and caused her to drop the pistol.

Vasquez moved to follow up on his advantage with a right hook aimed at Phoebe's head. Fortunately for Phoebe, her presence of mind enabled her to see the punch coming and she slipped under it to Vasquez's right-hand side which had now become his blindside. But he was not to be denied; with his back now turned towards Phoebe, he spun anti-clockwise towards her with a vicious spinning left backfist. At least it would have been vicious had it connected. But alas, Phoebe saw that one coming as well and was able to slip underneath it too. She was now inside his defence and followed up with a right ridgehand strike to his trachea.

"_GAAAAKT!_" A coarse gasp telling her that her strike had found its target and that he was now struggling to breathe.

No time for Phoebe to gloat. She launched at him with a left roundhouse towards his lower right torso, which must have struck him on his kidney if his wounded response was any reliable indicator. She immediately followed up by leaning back to lift the left knee and follow up with a second – faster – roundhouse kick to the head, without putting her foot down. The second kick connected, her instep crashing against his right cheek, staggering him. While he still seemed sluggish, she went into a clockwise spin, trailing he right leg before lifting it mid-spin on the way to a spinning hooking kick also aimed at his head. That kick was also a success, with the heel of her foot connecting crisply with his right temple. She saw his legs go wobbly on impact, and how he was raising his hands to protect his head. With his chest now open and with no time for her to rest, Phoebe moved to press her advantage even further and came in fast and hard with a spinning back kick, her right foot aimed at his vulnerable core muscles.

Only, he read her movement this time as he moved in to catch and trap the leg, before using her forward momentum to flail her out of the study by the captured leg. Out she flew, crashing spine-first into the passage wall, _hard_.

"_BITCH!_" cried the detective in a still-raspy voice conveying intense hatred. He closed in hard, ramming shoulder first into her to pin her against the wall, then pummelling her left flank with short, powerful right uppercuts. One. Two. Three times. Each one sending flares of searing pain from her left ribs to her brain. She had the briefest of moments to regret letting him see her nurse those ribs during his standoff with Olga. Eventually, after the fourth or fifth blow –she had lost count – the pain was overwhelming enough for her to go limp and for him to let her fall to her knees.

"Fuck shooting you," lorded Vasquez while standing over her in triumph. "After what you've done to me and my career, I'm going to enjoy slowly beating the shit out of you!"

The next bit of luck for Phoebe: Vasquez's overbearing self-confidence. She used that brief respite to catch whatever breath she could, before putting her all into a right uppercut of her own that connected as perfectly and powerfully with his groin as she could have wished for. The desired effect was achieved: the detective immediately doubled over in profound pain, squealing like a stabbed pig, while an incoherent jumble of what sounded like words issued from his mouth. Phoebe was not done yet as she quickly took to her feet and threw a jumping Muay Thai knee strike that caught her adversary on the soft tissue beneath his chin.

She followed up by grabbing his head and holding it up by the hair with her left hand while feeding him a steady stream of right forearm strikes. She was especially targeting his nose, and eventually, when she heard the crunch and squish of the cartilage giving in, she could only smile in malice at his obvious pain.

"**_Oh my god, Arnold! What have you done?"_**

For some reason, her words of admonishment to Arnold after he brutally killed Rawlins with the sledgehammer had decided to insert themselves into her thought process. _No_, her conscience retorted, _that was different!_

"**_Truth and justice aren't enough for these guys. Sometimes you have to sink to their level."_**

Arnold's words. For which she read him the riot act. Now here she was, assaulting a cop in a life or death struggle.

Vasquez sensed her distraction and capitalized by grabbing her by her shoulders and butting his head, hard, against her left temple. The impact caused a momentary blackout in her as she felt her knees buckle for the briefest of instances. Vasquez, sensing he had regained the advantage, followed up by grabbing Phoebe around her waist and lifting her off her feet in an adrenaline-fueled berserker rage. Then he ran down the passage and used his momentum to whip her spine-first onto the wooden floor in the lounge. He then followed up by falling on top of her, into her guard position, raining ground-and-pound punches wherever he thought an opening existed – head, chest, ribs – eventually stopping to drive his strong right forearm onto her throat.

As he put his full weight on his forearm to push down hard on her trachea, he took another opportunity to gloat. "Admit it, bitch," he bayed over her frantic gagging. "There's no escape now! How about after this, I get Old Man Scheck to put a hit on your parents? Just because! There's no _AAAAAAAAARGH_!"

His scream was feral, guttural. Not human. His response to her biting his arm, clamping her jaws for maximum pressure and damage. She'd been able to maneuver her chin under his arm and gain the necessary purchase to bite down hard. Now she refused to let go until she had bitten off a sizable chunk. But it wasn't to be; she felt his left fist crash flush on her face, forcing her to release her dental grip. But he was still inside her guard and she had to act quickly.

So…quickly she acted.

While he was distracted and still close enough, she swung her right leg over his left collarbone and around his neck, letting her calf run parallel to his shoulder line to the opposite shoulder. There, she had raised her left leg straight up, parallel to the flank. She slotted her right ankle behind the left knee, then bent the knee to secure the lock while grabbing the back of his head and pulling it down towards her right thigh for extra leverage.

In less than half a second, she had him in a triangle choke and was applying it for all her worth. His choking sounds were encouraging. Sounds of his carotid arteries and windpipe being constricted. Sounds of the blood flow to his brain being abruptly cut off. Sounds of a man blacking out.

She had him. _I HAVE HIM!_

But then…_oh no!_

His fading strength was not yet fully depleted as he grabbed her legs and steadied himself to his knees, then his feet, before standing up with her still applying the lock. _Shit_, she surmised, _he's going to slam me to the ground again._ The prospect of a third impact on her spine was unacceptable, so she broke the lock and landed on her feet in front of him. Before he could react to her movement, she deftly and powerfully spun into another back kick attempt, and _this_ time it found its mark – still his abdominal muscles – unhindered. Vasquez's wind was knocked out, but Phoebe knew he hadn't had enough. Immediately after the first kick, she launched into a jumping spinning crescent kick. The impact was perfect as the outside of her right foot crashed into and through the right side of his skull.

There he stood now, out on his feet.

His face: a mangled, bloody mess. His mouth was bleeding. _Plus_, she could swear he was missing teeth, those that remained intact were now stained red from the blood in his mouth.

His nose: bulbous and swollen blue from repeated impacts. Definitely broken.

She glanced into a nearby mirror and saw that she hadn't emerged any better. The head wound that Olga had dressed earlier had opened up again and the bleeding had saturated the dressing. Her right eye was almost swollen shut from his repeated strikes. And the ribs…definitely bruised at the very least, maybe cracked. She tasted blood in her mouth, but was unsure if she was bleeding internally or if the bleeding was superficial or even—

_MISTAKE!_

She felt his hands grab her by the hair, yanking her out of her sudden contemplative state.

"You…fucking…_BITCH_!" he shouted as he shook her violently by her hair. He followed up the shaking with a knee strike that caught her flush on the breadbasket and made her double over, her raspy breaths desperate for air. He followed up by pulling her along with him, still gripping onto her hair. Away from the lounge to the open-plan kitchen, where he flung her over the closest countertop. Over she crashed amid a cacophony of falling cutlery and breaking crockery. She didn't stand up after the collision.

Not that he wanted her to. _But just to make sure…_

He drew his Glock 22 and began weighing the situation and his options.

_Easy justification for lethal force_, or so he reckoned. _I mean, I called off our affair she came here to turn my wife against me. When that failed, she killed my wife and waited for me so she could kill me too. I must look like shit right now after what she did to me. A clear case of self-defense. No grand jury on earth will ever indict for this._

Having determined those assurances and hearing only moans and gasps from the other side of the counter, he called to Phoebe, loudly and proudly: "Well I must say, Phoebe, you know how to show a man a good time! Now, why not show yourself so I can end it? The offer of a headshot still stands. You know what? I'll do you a favor! When it's Arnold's turn, I'll do him quick, just so that he can be with you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

And that was the undoing of Detective Mark César Vasquez. Him trying to taunt Phoebe once too often. Him pointing his weapon at the ground instead of training it in her general direction. When she emerged from behind the cover with a snub-nosed revolver aimed at him, he wasn't ready. Not for the first shot, nor the second, nor the third. All three struck him in the chest. He didn't know it – and to be fair he would never know – that the bullets were Glaser rounds, frangible rounds that upon penetration shattered into fragments and bounced around inside his body while doing all sorts of tissue damage.

The damage done by Phoebe wasn't terminal, not yet anyway. Despite Phoebe not having taken her aim off him, he still craved the last word, the final say. Held together by adrenaline, grit, and hatred, he slowly lifted his service pistol. Then he heard a faint pop, before feeling a stinging sensation on his back. He turned to see Olga, stood with the HDM.

Olga, always his blind spot.

"Et tu, Olga?" he asked in dramatic confusion.

"Me especially," replied Olga Pataki with a look of newly discovered clarity in her eyes as she squeezed off five more rapid rounds, each one striking Mark Vasquez in the lungs and heart.

Suddenly, he found himself staring at a still frame of his surroundings. Nobody was moving; neither Phoebe nor Olga. Just him and…that girl again: Helga! She stood in her pink dress and pink bow, staring through him with no expression on her face. Remaining straight-faced, she said simply: "Five".

Then "Four".

"Three…"

"Two…"

"One…"

As the blackness engulfed him, he heard the apparition speak one last time: "Boys are so stupid."

* * *

"**_We were supposed to battle these people within the confines of the law! Did you understand that, Arnold? Did you? Within the law!"_**

Her castigating words to Arnold after the Rawlins incident. And here Phoebe stood in Olga's kitchen, gun in hand, having enacted the greatest hypocrisy in her life. Killing a cop, in his home no less. Where within the law was _that_?

"Well, I hope you're happy!" It was Olga's acrimonious voice, conveying her still-simmering hatred to her raven-haired guest. "You've officially taken me back to rock bottom."

"**_You killed tonight, not because you had to, but because you wanted to! Right now I don't think you're any better than them!"_**

More harsh words that she dumped on Arnold. Oh, how high and mighty, how morally superior she must have sounded! Now...was _she_ any better? She'd be lying for not admitting a small sense of satisfaction in beating up and shooting that glib Judas. She couldn't deny it: deep down, she _wanted_ this outcome with that slimy, traitorous bastard, Mark Vasquez, dead.

"And why'd you bring a gun with you, anyway?" Olga asked pointedly. "What did you intend doing with it?"

It was then that Phoebe Heyerdahl, realizing that she couldn't answer those two questions, dropped her gun. After a prolonged pause, she herself dropped to the floor, to her knees where she buried he head in one hand and wept dryly and silently. She then felt a prod from someone's foot on her side. "_Hey_, snap out of it!" goaded Olga mockingly.

Somewhere outside, a fulminous engine note could be heard in the distance.

Olga stood over her, pistol still in hand. "I suppose this is the part where I thank you for rescuing me from the marriage from hell." Her tone still conveyed her original bitterness toward Phoebe. "Sorry, not gonna happen! This morning I wake up, still having a husband and a happy life. Now, I have nothing left and what I really want to do…"

She paused, and Phoebe looked up to see Olga pointing the pistol down at her. Upon reflecting on her actions and their consequences, Phoebe wasn't too sure if she wanted to present a counter-argument to Olga.

"But," continued Olga, "that would be an act of mercy for one like you who can't process and live with any sort of guilt. Correct, Little Miss Do Right? Why else would you take the time to visit me just for your confession?"

With that, Olga placed the pistol on the countertop. She then moved away from Phoebe and stood silently in the lounge while contemplating the life choices that had led her to this point.

The engine note was getting louder and ever so closer. Eventually, it idled to a halt in front of the house and the women heard a door open, accompanied by a loud 'Go! Go! Go!'. And when Arnold kicked the door down and stormed in, pistol at the ready, neither woman had any remaining capacity for any more surprises.

Arnold was apparently happy with what he surveyed, for he spoke 'Clear!" into a radio transmitter. He then holstered his weapon and turned his attention to the living occupants. "Everyone OK?" he asked. He could see Olga, but Phoebe was out of his sight.

Olga's glare towards him screamed '_I remember the memorial, you son of a bitch!_', but she nevertheless nodded to the affirmative. Arnold had more important matters on his mind than worrying about Olga's enmity towards him as he called for Phoebe.

Hearing his voice snapped Phoebe out of her funk and she slowly stood up from behind the counter and conveyed her presence. She then watched Arnold go pale as he saw the state of her face.

"_PHOEBE!_" he shouted as he darted towards her. His professional demeanor disappeared as he held her head close to his and examined the extent of her injuries. He seemed overcome by emotion as he let go of her head and instead hugged her tenderly.

But not tenderly enough…

"OW-OW-OW-OW, Arnold! Ribs! _Ribs!_" Phoebe painfully gasped.

So he let go of her torso to cup her cheeks in his hands and stare lovingly – if somewhat disapprovingly – at her. There were so many points for which he could berate her, only he couldn't remember what those points were. Instead, he kissed her gently and ever so gratefully on her lips. She, in turn, found Arnold's kiss to be the most effective and pleasurable analgesic ever administered, and let it continue a bit longer.

"I thought_ I_ was supposed to be the reckless one," asked a relieved Arnold once their lips parted. "What happened?"

Phoebe gave him a condensed version of the preceding altercation and its results. After which Arnold turned to Olga, who was still glaring at him in utter repugnance.

"You? You saved her?" Then, when the realization sank in: "You saved her! Thank you! Thank you!"

With that, he walked to Olga, whose visible distaste towards him failed to deter him from hugging her in gratitude. For the briefest of instances, she felt in his embrace the warm sincerity of the kindly young boy who won over her sister's heart and soul. Until…

"Hey, did I say you could touch me?" she exclaimed as she extricated herself from him.

"Everything OK in there?" crackled Arnold's radio.

"Fine and peachy, Sheriff!" replied Arnold. "Stay put and keep the motor running."

"'Sheriff"? Arnie?" queried Phoebe as all inside heard the maintain its glorious low-pitched idle.

"Long story," replied Arnold, before focussing his attention on the late Detective Mark Vasquez. "You say he had orders to kill Phoebe?"

The women nodded.

"OK, that's helpful," declared Arnold as he went over to rummage through the dead man's pockets, much to Olga's unease. He found what he was seeking: the mobile phone, miraculously still in good nick.

"Arnold," asked Phoebe, her curiosity having overridden her pain, "would you mind giving your reason for disturbing and possibly tampering with a crime scene?"

"You say he was under orders to kill you. Chances are his handler will want to check in with him. I want to be there when the call comes."

"Hence, Arnie remaining outside so as not to be implicated in any wrongdoing."

"Exactly!"

"Look, lovebirds," a pouty Olga interrupted, "there's still the matter of the dead body. What about that?"

After some thought, Arnold turned to Phoebe. "Phoebe, can I have your phone's SD card?"

"Certainly, but why would you require it?"

"Planting evidence. Making sure Olga goes off the radar after killing a cop. Buy us time so we can figure out how to get her out of this mess."

To which Olga sharply protested: "Wait a minute! I don't recall asking for your help!"

Arnold's reply was soft, but nevertheless conveyed that he was not suffering any of Olga's protests: "Well tough! You've earned it, like it or not."

Phoebe, meanwhile, had caught on to Arnold's gambit and suggested once she had handed him the card: "May I suggest planting it in the study down the passage. And Arnold, could you please acquire the folder on the desk there? I feel it may prove useful somehow. Oh, and while you're there, would it be possible to retrieve any remnant of my glasses?"

"Sure," he sweetly replied, despite the urgency of the matter and the seriousness of their current situation. Off he went.

"Look at you, Miss Acclaimed Journalist. Party to your man planting evidence after you two fucked up my entire life." But before Phoebe could feel any guilt, Olga followed up with: "The question still stands. What is he to you?"

Phoebe could only smile as she played back some more words spoken to her by Arnold which gave her all the justification she needed for her actions:

"**_But for those I love and care about – those I think make my life worth living – I'm willing to go to any extreme, law or no law!"_**

"Someone I love dearly," she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Since Arnold and Arnie were created as opposite sides as the same coin, their choice in cars had to be polar opposites as well. And since my version of Arnold favors nippy European hot hatches, Arnie would have to be more partial to Detroit V8 muscle. Hence the lazily powerful Chrysler 300C, which I believe suited Arnie's laidback disposition better than other equivalents.
> 
> Author's Note #2: My number one goal with the fight scene was to keep it grounded and realistic, not make it come off as too choreographed. I wanted to convey the technical aspects, but also the down-and-dirty nature since there are no referees in a self-defense situation. Another point I wanted to highlight is that being punched and kicked hard hurts, and so victory would be hard-won.
> 
> Author's Note #3: As someone who has fought K1 Full Contact, I can personally vouch for Vasquez's muscle spasms. Take enough full-contact shots to the abdomen, and be prepared for the muscles to seize up at the slightest provocation within up to twenty-four hours after a fight. It ain't fun.
> 
> Author's Note #4: Phoebe's propensity for martial arts was based on two scenes from the series. The fencing scene in 'Phoebe Cheats' made me believe that her footwork was fast, explosive and efficient. Qualities that lend themselves very well to any fighting art. Then there's the clip from 'Parents Day' with her as the wheelbarrow in the wheelbarrow race that made me go 'Damn, this girl's got amazing core strength!'
> 
> Finally, here is this chapter's Spotify list:  
The Blood That Moves The Body - a-ha  
The Gates Of Hell / Penn's Wish - Basil Poledouris  
Another Body Murdered - Faith No More & Boo-Yaa T.R.I.B.E.  
Yours Fatally - Jamali  
Flesh - KMFDM  
I Against I - Massive Attack feat. Mos Def  
Stop The Cavalry - Music Lab Collective (only because the original Jona Lewie version sounded a bit too comedic for my purposes...)  
The Crooked Kind - Radical Face  
6 Underground - Sneaker Pimps


	20. Because Family Matters (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Vasquez survives a shotgun blast and prepares to finish his job, only for Phoebe to thwart him, with some help from Olga. Arnold arrives to get them away from the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

By all accounts, she had aged gracefully. Her body made it a tough proposition for anyone to reconcile it with her age of 63. Thanks to the daily laps she swam at the gym – a throwback to her days as a competitive swimmer – her toned figure gave her the look and feel of someone twenty years her junior. As a result, she was still reasonably active in the dating scene with a few conquests and many more broken hearts in her wake.

She was semi-retired from the day-to-day running of her business, though her input was still highly sought-after when it came to deciding which phone models and accessories would be a season's bestsellers. She had just studied the latest sales reports, and she found the numbers encouraging. The models which she had predicted to be the bestsellers, proved to be exactly those. Her business acumen was uncanny, as was her ability to stay ahead of consumer trends. Both her staff and her business rivals would listen intently to her recommendations, such was her business sense.

Miriam Pataki was seated in the study in her house, the brownstone which Robert had lost when he still insisted on gambling on the beeper market all those years back. It hadn't been easy for her since his conviction and the subsequent transfer of his property and debts to her name. She was fortunate enough to parlay her fifteen minutes of fame following the trial into securing a business loan, which she used to repurpose the beeper store, first into a cell phone store, before branching into general electronics. Many years later, all debts (hers and Bob's) had been settled and the business was consistently operating at a healthy profit.

And yet…it wasn't enough.

Certainly, the sense of achievement should have been reward enough. So too the daily '_fuck you_' she sent to the Pataki clan by accomplishing what their golden boy Robert never could while keeping his surname just to smear salt into their wounded pride. His name was still plastered all over the store – Big Bob's Electronics – just in case the bastard would read about it in prison and realize that his useless wife was thriving without his intervention. Surely he'd also have read about how she bought back the brownstone and was living comfortably again. That thought surely would be enough to make her life worthwhile.

And yet…had she gained the world at the cost of her soul?

Her relationship with her one remaining daughter was strained at the best of times, following Robert's trial. Olga wanted to blame Arnold for tearing down the family with his tirade at the memorial, though Miriam didn't agree. As far as she was concerned, it was Arnold who freed her and Olga from Bob's destructive ways even if he did initially put them through hell. And with that, a mother-daughter bond was fractured. Olga had rebuffed all of Miriam's offers of assistance, both monetary and moral. It was only through Olga's kind husband that reconciliation was slowly, very slowly, becoming a possibility.

Miriam remained optimistic that her relationship with Olga could yet be salvaged; she was determined to make a success out of this endeavor. Unlike her greatest failure, the symbol of which was prominently framed against a wall in the study as a daily reminder. Every day she'd force herself to look at it as a reminder of past sins and motivation for her never-ending quest for atonement.

Seventeen years later, and no matter how hardened a businesswoman she'd become, no matter how much she'd moved on with her life, the sight of the display was enough to release the still-raw pain within her and effectively undo her.

Like now, as she started weeping, sobbing, weakly calling out her daughter's name.

"Helga…"

* * *

Smith had made good on his word. His contact at NASA had arranged for the promised satellite. True to her promise, it had taken roughly an hour to change its orbit to a geostationary one above Hillwood Harbour. Thus far all that was on display was the normal day-to-day stevedore activity: nothing out of the ordinary.

Oh well, Brainy would have to be patient as the going was still early. The lull could be useful; at least he'd be afforded maybe an hour or two of rest, maybe a chance to grab a quick bite.

Unlike what happened about forty minutes ago.

Forty minutes ago, he had called Arnold for a progress report. And as usual with Arnold, the feedback had been good news-bad news.

Good news: Phoebe was safe; Olga too.

Bad news: Phoebe was quite banged up.

Good news: Arnold would patch her up at her place.

"So did Vasquez get to her? Were you able to stop him?"

Bad news: No, they didn't get there in time.

Good news: They didn't need to. Phoebe and Olga fought him off.

Good news: Vasquez is dead.

Bad news: Vasquez is dead.

"Oh shit. Arnold, he may have been dirty, but he was still a cop. You'll have the whole Hillwood PD looking for one or more cop-killers now!"

"You think I don't know that? Both Phoebe and Olga are on the hook!"

"So what can you do about it."

"Look, I planted an SD card containing the dirt on Vasquez you gave Phoebe. Could give any investigators pause for thought. Maybe they'll first run it by the higher-ups, buy Olga and Phoebe a day or two. Enough for us to take down Scheck. Plus, I have the murder weapons, and—"

"Murder weapons? Murder weapons, _plural_?" One thing about Arnold, Brainy suddenly realized as he recalled the dialogue. Brainy enjoyed a reputation of being even-keeled in even the most untenable situations, and there was Arnold, newly arrived and already fraying every goddamn one of his nerves.

"Three, actually. Now don't worry. I've disassembled them all. I just need them disposed of and…"

"Fine!" sighed Brainy in resignation. "Can you get them over here in ten minutes? The school kids will be coming home soon, so we're pressed for time."

"Not a problem," replied Arnold. And momentarily thereafter, Brainy heard a knock at his door. He opened the door to reveal Arnold, stood there phone in one hand and three bags clenched in the other. His smile belied the seriousness with which he was treating the situation as he continued. "I mixed up the parts in three bags. I just need them disappeared."

Brainy accepted the bags reluctantly and asked sardonically: "Anything else?"

"Actually, yes!" replied Arnold. "You mentioned how you wanted to get Olga out of this minefield as cleanly as possible. Well, so do I. So does Phoebe. We reckon she'll be needing a damn good lawyer. You got one lined up?"

Brainy smiled at that request as he revealed that he had a team of defence attorneys lined up for just this situation, all of whom had racked up a ton of IOU's with him which he was waiting to cash in. He retreated inside to put down the bags before scribbling a number on a slip of paper, which he then handed to Arnold. "Tell her it's from Brainy. She'll take it from there."

"That's some preplanning," admired Arnold.

"Hey, I've had this plan set up for some time yet," said Brainy. "I couldn't help Helga, but I can still make things right for her family. Maybe this will smooth things over between her and Miriam."

"You're OK, Brainy," commended Arnold in admiration. "We're just lucky you're on our side!"

With that, Arnold extended his right hand to Brainy, who took it for a firm handshake. Only, when Brainy wanted to release his hand, he found that Arnold was still maintaining his grip.

"Thumb," Arnold whispered cryptically.

"Excuse me?"

"Thumb," repeated Arnold as he loosened his grip to raise his right thumb upright as a demonstration.

Oh god…was this..?

Brainy mimicked Arnold's gesture and raised his right thumb as well, for Arnold to move his thumb in front of it in a side-side motion without letting the digits touch.

Fuck…it was!

"Haven't done this for seventeen years, not even with my Ranger buddies," explained Arnold in a tone hinting at long-repressed sadness. "You've done so much to keep hope alive, and I reckon Gerald would approve."

With that said, Arnold was gone. Walking to the idling red Golf waiting for him, before Brainy's mind could measure the significance and the profoundness of the gesture. Holy shit, he'd earned the wholehearted trust of Arnold Shortman!

Back in the here and now, Brainy was forced to recognize that as much of a pain in the ass that the new Arnold could be, deep down he was every bit as loyal to and appreciative of his friends as he'd always been. That singular gesture with the thumbs had spurred Brainy into recruiting two of the most reliable, discreet and off-the-books couriers/cleaners he knew. He'd handed the bags to the one with a single instruction: no trace. The second one was entrusted with a small envelope and her instructions were similarly concise: Hillwood PD; Police Commissioner. Time to play his hand, he reckoned while hoping that his timing would not be off.

What he didn't know at the time was that those bags and their contents were indeed destined to disappear with no trace as instructed. He'd never know how the bags found its way to the steel mill where they were 'accidentally' dropped into a smelter. He did, however, know that the envelope would be in the hands of the Police Chief within half an hour.

Satisfied that he'd bought Phoebe and Olga the time they needed, and also that the endgame had commenced, back he went to observe Hillwood Harbour for any unusual activity.

* * *

Before Arnold's visit to Brainy, Arnie had driven him and the women back to Phoebe's place. There, Arnold had performed another safety check that yielded nothing untoward. Next, Arnie's 300C went into the garage after Arnold's Golf was taken out. The reasoning was that while Vasquez may have looked into Arnold's vehicle, his inquiries would almost certainly have been off-the-books and under-the-table. With his death, interest in a certain red Mark V Golf GTI clearly had to be on the wane. In contrast, Arnie's Chrysler ran the risk of being placed at the site of the detective's death, so it had to be hidden from public eyes.

On their way to returning to Phoebe's place, the cousins had taken the time to get takeout for the party. Arnold had picked up sushi for him and Phoebe. He figured Chinese would be a safe option for Olga. Arnie, being ever the country boy, settled for a fried chicken meal.

Once back and fed at home, Arnie retreated to the lounge's sofa for some much-needed sleep. The fatigue that began with his all-night trip to Hillwood had conspired with his fading adrenaline and declining caffeine levels to leave him in desperate need of rest.

This left a precarious trio comprising Arnold and Phoebe and Olga. And since Arnie had called dibs on the lounge, the trio was forced to retreat to Phoebe's study. The relatively cramped location served only to heighten the tension between Olga and Phoebe, and also the animus Olga projected towards Arnold. But either Arnold wasn't aware of Olga's enmity, or he didn't consider it worth dwelling on.

So it was he who broke the ice and suggested: "Phoebe let's go take a look at your injuries and dress them." He then turned to Olga, and also the folder on her sister that Phoebe had held onto after Vasquez's death and had placed in the study. "Olga, maybe you should take time and examine the folder and see if Mark was twisting what he read about Helga, you know, just to get a rise out of you."

Before Olga could protest, Arnold guided Phoebe out of the study and left her be.

* * *

They were in the main bedroom, sitting on the bed, facing one another. Arnold had broken out his first aid kit and was preparing to attend to Phoebe. Before he and Arnie left for Brainy, he'd asked her to ice up wherever Mark had struck her to reduce any swelling. That much she had done, and her bruising had subsided somewhat.

"What is it you said to me when we arrived here for the first time?" Arnold teased. Which he felt he could well afford to do, as Phoebe was safe now. "'You're not playing the tragic, self-sacrificing hero as long as we're together!' 'And please, _please_. No unnecessary risks.' I take it those rules were meant for me but not you, right?"

Phoebe's adrenaline had subsided since her encounter with Mark, and she had gradually become number to those around her. Such as now when she barely registered his light-hearted jibe. Her eyes seemed listless and glazed over and her expression was of shocked realization. Arnold caught on immediately: he'd seen that look countless times among his squadmates; he himself had expressed it. That first-time look of realization that another human being was dead by the wearer's hands. He immediately placed his hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.

"Phoebe, listen to me!" he whispered in urgent, soft reassurance. "What happened today was self-defense. No more, no less! He wanted to kill you, he was _ordered_ to kill you, he was _going_ to kill you! It was either you or him!"

He then watched as a flicker of life returned to her eyes. And he pressed on: "And Phoebe? I'm glad it was you. I'm relieved it was you. To hell with anyone else!" He kept looking at her, then saw the flicker become a spark: a good sign.

"I…I…killed…" she stammered, on the verge of tears.

At which point, he changed his grasp to an embrace, being careful not to agitate the tender ribs on her left side. "Shh, Phoebe. You had no choice. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't—"

"It _was_, Arnold!" Phoebe interrupted despondently. "It _was_! If I only hadn't become involved with him! If only I hadn't been so senseless!"

"No, Phoebe, don't say that. Don't even _think of_ it!" Arnold's tone remained calm and reassuring, never giving in to impatience. "Whether or not you slept with him doesn't matter. He'd have come after you anyway. _They'd_ have come after you anyway."

"But-but-but…Olga…" Nothing out of the ordinary with Phoebe's rambling reckoned Arnold. She'd committed something atrocious, self-defense or not, and subconsciously she didn't want forgiveness or comfort.

Well, tough! He loved her too much not to let her handle this matter alone. He was glad to have her back and wouldn't risk losing her in _any_ way. He had to keep trying to reach her. "Olga would have been dead too, Phoebe. He'd have killed her too…after lying to her for such a long time. The marriage was a sham anyway. You get it, Phoebe? She'd be dead too! You helped save her!"

He then paused to look her in her eyes again. He saw her starting to grasp the situation, and from her normal, familiar comfort zone that was a logical standpoint. "That's right, Phoebe. That's correct!" Though his vocabulary was nowhere near as comprehensive as hers, Arnold had to engage Phoebe at her level. "You had no way of…um... forecasting this outcome."

Her eyes lit up ever so slightly at that remark.

"Yes, there was a certain sense of…inevitability. Yeah, inevitability…to what happened today."

The look from her suggested that she was focussing her attention on him now, as opposed to her inner turmoil.

"Besides which," he continued, trying to imitate her vocabulary and intonation so to maintain his connection with her, "have you considered how many people would have been utterly and emotionally gutted if you were to pass away prematurely? Your parents. Your family. Your friends. _Me?_" At that last word, her eyes widened, and he noticed.

"Remember what I told you when we arrived? How you as a person are my number one priority? How you're not someone I'd want to risk losing? I meant it then, I mean it now." He capped that statement with a small peck on her cheek, before releasing her and pulling away. "You're too significant a person in my life for me to let you go through this by yourself," he spoke in a stumbling meter, trying still to mimic Phoebe's diction.

She sat silently, a tear streaming down the side of her face. A smile then crept up on her face as she leaned towards him, her lips finding his, softly touching and caressing them for a kiss of intimate understanding. She pulled away, continuing her smile as she commented. "Arnold, Is that really how I sound to you when I talk?"

A seemingly encouraged Arnold went with the most diplomatic answer he could construct: "Yes. And I wouldn't have you any other way!"

"And how fortunate a decision that is, too!" she proclaimed. "But Arnold, seriously," she said to temper her euphoria, "this is still a serious matter, this recent action of mine…"

Arnold countered by lightly pressing his right index finger on her lips. "And that's why I'm here. To help you through it. I've been exactly where you are now. I know what you're going through right now."

"You do?" asked Phoebe before remembering his past. "You do."

To which Arnold nodded, then replied: "Let's talk about it while getting you patched up. Think you can take off your top?"

He watched Phoebe's smile turn mischievous, followed by: "You know, I seem to be having some upper-body mobility issues. I'm afraid you'll have to handle that task for me."

* * *

> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: You think that's annoying? Try having a sister that's perfect._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss: _ ** _Perfect? What do you mean, perfect?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Well, she gets straight A's at Bennington College, all the boys want to go out with her, but she's got to stay home and practice the piano for the Brandenburg Concerto she's giving at the orphanage this weekend! And Mom and Dad can't get enough of her._

Olga Pataki couldn't believe what she was reading. She'd never known Helga to be the most sparkling of personalities, and Helga's open and hostile antipathy towards her had not gone unnoticed. Still, Olga Pataki always guessed that her little sister was fronting with her displays of ill will, or maybe she was just going through a temporary phase.

And here Olga was, reading seventeen years after the fact how Helga's animosity towards her family was no act. That she wasn't merely seeking attention; she was seeking love and acceptance from those who were meant to nurture her.

> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: So what about your dad? He doesn't notice you either?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Are you kidding? All he cares about is Olga because she's so perfect. She's got him completely buffaloed, always has, as far back as I can remember._

The transcript went on to mention that one morning when Olga was impressing their parents with her Chopin recital, to the point where Helga was ignored and had to leave for preschool on her own. Olga read this, and the realization dawned that she had always dismissed Helga's behavior as the petty tantrums of a child.

Now, however, she who was Olga Pataki, could she have been part of the reason for her sister's antisocial, sociopathic behavior? _Absolutely not!_ How could she? She loved her sister oh so very much!

Did she? Really?

_Of course I did! I even told her how I was shielding her from Daddy's unrealistic expectations by being the perfect daughter!_

"Are you sure?" asked a familiar voice. Mark?

"Were you really that magnanimous towards her? Did you really love and care for your baby sister like you claimed you did?" Mark's voice played through her head; he even mimicked her tone when he mentioned 'baby sister'. She looked around for the origin, scanning every corner of the study until he appeared at the doorway, still sporting the injuries and bullet entry wounds that had ended his life. "Because I'm not convinced."

"Shut up, Mark! What would you know?" Olga spat back in defiance.

"I know what _I'd_ do if I was used to having my parents' attention all to myself for over a decade, then have to share it with a new arrival…"

"I said shut _up_!" Olga shouted back at him.

But he didn't. "I'd fight hard to keep all the attention to myself. Get the straight A's, win the competitions, get the scholarships. Anything to make me the darling of my parents. To keep them interested in _me_."

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut. _Up_!" cried Olga ever louder.

"But I'd also pretend to show her some interest. Pretend to be on her side, make her believe I've got her back. Fucking fawn on her every fucking chance I get!"

At which Olga quickly got up and charged at him with a shrill, banshee-like wail, only to pass right through him. She turned to face him and found him still there. His smile taunted her, signifying that she was at his mercy now.

"…while in reality, I'm keeping her away from Mommy and Daddy's spotlight because I don't want to share it!"

"That's not true!" she shrieked at him. "I loved her! I _always_ loved her!"

But Mark kept talking as if her presence didn't matter. "Ah, but here's the best part! All the fawning makes her believe I'm a ditzy, clueless airhead and so she doesn't take me seriously. She doesn't even realize I'm the one driving her away from Mommy and Daddy. Yay! More attention to me!"

"Mark, for fuck's sake! Stop it!"

He didn't. "Because, behind the sugar-sweet personality, the overachievements and the kind façade, I'm nothing more than a selfish, two-faced, malicious little cunt!"

"_You fucking liar_!" Olga yelled as she lunged at him again, hoping to strangle the fucker. Instead, she once again passed through him and barrelled headlong towards the edge of the desk. Upon impact, she was jerked bolt upright, seated at the desk. Her breath coming in labored panting, her brow sweating, all from the vividness of the dream from which she had escaped.

She realized that she'd nodded off while perusing Helga's file, a product of latent exhaustion after a harrowing day. It took a while for her breathing to stabilize, whereupon she recalled the dream. Mark was wrong! She _did_ love Helga. She _did_ want to protect Helga from the weight of their father's expectations.

She did.

Yes, she _did_.

_Yes,_ she fucking did!

But reading Helga's file had shown Olga that her good intentions had had the opposite effect and had in fact driven Helga away from her and the family. And there was no denying it this time: Olga had been a horrible sister. Aloof, inattentive, uninterested: uncaring despite her outward projections. She couldn't even be of help to Helga in San Lorenzo. Even here in Hillwood, before San Lorenzo, she'd made a better sisterly connection with Lila Sawyer.

And suddenly the deluge had begun as the memories arrived.

Every slight towards Helga. Every instance of embarrassing her, of undermining her. Of making her feel unimportant, irrelevant.

She allowed a tear to flow as the truth finally hit her: _I was a terrible sister_.

Still, she owed it to herself to understand who her sister truly was. So back to the reading she went.

* * *

The neighbors of Mark and Olga Vasquez arrived home from work in the late afternoon, and immediately noticed a set of tire skid marks on the road opposite the couple's house, signs of a burnout that seemed incongruent in their suburban idyll. It looked as if someone had left in a hurry: a burglary, perhaps?

They feared the worst when they found the front door unlocked. Fear turned to dread when they entered tentatively and found the body of Detective Mark César Vasquez lying in the lounge. One frantic 911 call and twenty minutes later, the first responders arrived. For two hours, photographs were taken, dimensions were measured, the body was inspected, and evidence was gathered. Among the evidence gathered was a seemingly nondescript SD card, well-hidden in the study.

Thankfully, the computer crimes unit was along for the investigation, given the astronomically high profile of the victim.

They inspected the SD card and its contents.

They paused.

They inspected the contents again. They verified the soundness of the data.

They reported it to the detective in charge of the scene, who promptly called the Chief of Detectives, who just as promptly called the Police Commissioner. The Police Commissioner, in turn, went, "Oh shit!" because about two hours earlier _he_ had received a call from a man claiming to represent Gino Giovinazzo. The man had called to announce that the Commissioner was about to become part of a very messy, very awkward and very career-killing situation.

What situation?

His complicity and participation in an act of domestic terrorism, specifically the bombing of The Sunset Arms seventeen years ago. He needn't have been reminded that there was no statute of limitations for such crimes.

What proof, if any, did the caller have?

Bank records, email transcripts (all with properly verified metadata) showing how the Chief of Detectives back then (now Commissioner), the Commissioner (now Mayor), and the District Attorney (now Governor) conspired to facilitate the crime, as well as suppress crucial evidence and have the incident declared an accident. Could they imagine the ramifications if such information were to come to light? If the constituents, especially the proletariat, were to find out that the three officials had acted in such an unpatriotic way and sold out their American values to the highest bidder, could he imagine what the consequences would be?

Fuck!

Yes, fuck indeed. Oh, and no need to trace the call; it wouldn't do him any good. The evidence had been replicated a few times over and was being stored with various…let's say 'associates'…in various worldwide locations and should any move be made on Mr. Giovinazzo…well, the consequences were obvious, weren't they?

Fuck!

Yes, that was what the Governor and Mayor also said when confronted with these terms and conditions. Yes, Commissioner, they were also on board.

What did the caller want?

Well, the formal terms were to be determined on a future date. But for now, they did have a set of small ad hoc tasks with which the trio could perhaps be of assistance. Well, they didn't have an exact timeline, but they were fairly assured that a certain Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck would meet an untimely demise within the week, and would they kindly not interfere if and when said event took place? Oh, one more thing: Arnold Shortman. Didn't matter who he is. Anyway, he and a certain Phoebe Heyerdahl…yes the reporter…they were to be left alone for an indefinite period, them and any of their associates. It didn't matter for what actions; would they please comply with this second request, as a test of their good faith? Thank you so much, Commissioner.

The Commissioner's day would have merely been crappy had that exchange been the only bit of bad news. But now he found himself in possession of an SD card, delivered half an hour ago by an unknown messenger and addressed to him. The card contained a rather lengthy video of an exchange between two men, somewhere in the cemetery.

And…oh shit! Shit! Shit! _Shit!_

There was Detective Mark Vasquez, on video, confessing to the best goddamn CI – to this day still known only as Brainy – that he was in the pockets of Scheck and the late Santalov. Admitting to the way he was receiving his payments and how he was making his wife an accessory in the matter. Granted, the Commissioner was aware of this arrangement, but the public wasn't. Shit, if this were to get out…

All his arrests and convictions would be called into question. The Department was staring at a very public disgrace.

And here was the Chief of Detectives, bearing even _more_ bad news. Another SD card, found at the detective's house. Containing, amongst other information, detailed bank records showing monthly deposits made to the detective from a bank account belonging to Vitaly Santalov, showing that the detective was on the take.

_FUCK!_

And now the commissioner had to make a very fucking delicate call. An enormous can of worms was about to be opened with this case and could send Hillwood PD right down the crapper.

"So you say Vasquez was shot dead, right?" he asked his subordinate.

"Yes, Commissioner. CSU says nine times. With different calibers. They recovered six .22 slugs and three .38 slugs from the body. The bastard went down hard."

"What about the weapons used?"

"None found at the scene. No casings either. Could have been a hit."

The Commissioner carefully considered the information he'd just received. He had another question: "What about the wife? Has she been informed yet?"

"That's just it. We tried contacting her, but her phone was still in the house. She didn't have any next of kin listed, so as far as we know, she's still in the wind. "

More mulling by the Commissioner, then: "Chief, don't bother with her. And have CSU wrap up processing the scene. I believe I've solved this case for them."

* * *

They were still seated on the bed, with Phoebe stripped to her blue bra while still wearing her jeans. Arnold, however, had no time to admire her sleek curves as he was tending to her injuries. First, he'd inspected her entire upper body and was happy to see only minor, superficial scrapes instead of lacerations after she told him how she was flung over a teeming kitchen counter. He was equally relieved to see that the bruising from Mark's ground and pound was just as slight. "Looks like your sweatshirt was thick enough to absorb the worst of his strikes," Arnold had postulated to no argument from Phoebe. He did, however, have to confess that the inspection had lasted a bit longer and was perhaps a bit more thorough than it should have been, but he didn't hear Phoebe voice any objections to that either.

Next. he'd stitched up the open wound Phoebe had received on her left temple from Olga's shotgun strike and which was further aggravated by Mark's headbutt. Then, he'd checked her spine for any dislocated or fractured vertebrae and was relieved to find none. Finally, he inspected her ribs and was thankful to inform her that they weren't broken, just bruised, and needed to be strapped up. A goal he'd just accomplished.

"Let me guess, Arnold," speculated Phoebe, "an atavism from your days in the Rangers?"

"I suppose," he replied, glad that Phoebe's advanced vocabulary had returned. "What about you?" He was recalling Phoebe's account of her combat with Mark. "Where did you learn to fight?"

"Oh, you know, my father taught me fencing when I was eight. I kept at it through elementary school. Then…_that_…happened. Then the backlash at PS 118. Suddenly I decided that I needed some form of hand-to-hand combat. It would have been most peculiar carrying my épée out in public, so in Seattle I took up Goju-Ryu karate. Made it to First Kyu Brown Belt. I also dabbled a bit in jiu-jitsu to cover me on the ground. Unfortunately, the university demanded all of my time, so I was forced to quit. But the peculiar thing about martial arts; train long enough and even when you stop, the muscle memory never goes away."

"True that," agreed Arnold, now fondly remembering how his grandmother had schooled him in Shotokan, long enough for him to develop the muscle memory. He then thought sadly of how in spite of his fighting knowledge, he simply froze against Lasombra back in San Lorenzo when his life and those of Helga and Gerald really needed his fighting skills. To this day, memories of his inaction still visited shame upon him.

"Arnold, are you alright?" Phoebe asked, having noticed his melancholy eyes.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking of a past event that I'm not too proud about."

"Care to share, perhaps?"

He then went into a lengthy explanation of his encounter against Lasombra with Helga and Gerald, and the helplessness he felt then and how he never wanted to be in a similar situation ever again.

"Which explains why you were so all over me at Olga's place!" she cutely surmised.

Arnold remained serious, yet calm. "Let's just say the possibility of losing you was a strong motivator. I mean Scheck is threatening to destroy San Lorenzo itself to force a final confrontation, but you were still more important."

"Wait, what?" Phoebe's mood suddenly turned incredulous. "He's threatening _what_?"

To which Arnold replied, having realized that Phoebe wasn't yet up to speed on a lot of new information, including Brainy's confession and Scheck's scheme: "Maybe you want to remain seated. You did miss out on _quite_ a bit."

* * *

Meanwhile, Olga was still poring through the file and indeed it painted a bleaker picture of her sister's circumstances and state of mind than she could ever have imagined.

> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: I'm hearing your anger again, Helga._
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Okay, so you hear my anger. So I get angry. I already told you that I've got a lame mom, a blowhard dad, and a perfect sister. So they make me mad, big deal!_
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: So why do you take it out on Arnold?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Why do you keep bringing up Arnold? I am not angry at Arnold._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: Helga, I've seen you express more anger at him than anyone else._

Olga always thought of herself as the family peacemaker, the adhesive that kept them a happy nuclear unit. What she was reading made a mockery of that notion. The reality of her being a divisive figure in the Pataki household was becoming harder to dispute.

> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: I love Arnold! There, I said it! I love him! I love him! Arnold! Arnold! Arnold! I'm absitively posolutely in love with the boy! I want to grow up having a fabulous life, traveling around the world with him! Coffee in Paris, roses, sailboats, the whole nine yards! I want to have a perfume named after us: 'Arnold Helga'! I Love ARNOLD!_

It was Arnold! It always was! Her love for him perfectly counterbalanced her hostility towards her family. He showed her the compassion and understanding that she never received at home. Only…

> **Helga Pataki**: But I'm not ready to tell him!
> 
> **Dr. Bliss: **You don't have to tell him now. You can do it when you're ready.

...she was unable to open up to him, until the airport at San Lorenzo. She remembered fondly how her little sister's eyes lit up when Arnold confessed his affection towards her. Olga had seen Helga smile, but never as wholeheartedly as at that very moment. She couldn't recall Helga, before or since, ever being more openly happy to be in the presence of another person. In a matter of minutes, Arnold had brought to Helga a sense of belonging, of being loved and appreciated. Olga after eleven years hadn't even come close. Who knows? Maybe, given time, he could have been the husband, the significant other whom she _deserved_.

And suddenly, the events at the memorial came into perspective. '_Fuck you, Bob_' was no random statement. It was the profound loss of those he loved, a group which had come to include Helga Pataki, whom her father had openly disparaged. It was a benevolent boy reaching his breaking point. It was Arnold's frustration, his undiluted disbelief at Bob's shitty parenting and equally shitty personality, finally simmering over.

_Wait, did I just admit that Bob was a shitty person?_

No, she didn't want to think it, but the more she did, the more sense it made. The open favoritism, the conditions attached to his love, the fact that he loved her only for as long as she was _achieving_. Which was why he only ever had the time for her, not for Helga and not for her mother.

_Oh god, Mummy!_

Yes, the woman who spent entire days plying herself with those damn alcoholic smoothies, except…_except_, when _Olga_ was visiting! God, why didn't she see it then? Answer: she was too fucking oblivious, that's why! Mark was right; he had her number: _"All that brainpower, not one bit of mental strength!"_

_No, No. No! _She forced his pejoratives out of her mind and went back to Miriam.

> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: My mom? My mom wouldn't notice me if I was an alien pod-person chanting Hare Krishna and spitting nickels._

_Not intentionally, Baby Sister_. Her tears were welling as she silently protested to her dead sister. _She didn't drink because of you. She drank because of Daddy! _Miriam loved Helga; Olga _knew _it. She cast her mind back to the rescue at Lasombra's camp. She specifically recalled how Bob stopped fighting once he was sure his favorite daughter was safe.

Miriam, however…

She was by far the more vicious fighter; she took on the biggest goon in the camp and broke not only his cheekbone but also his eye socket with a frying pan. And even when the fighting was over and everyone was safe, she pleaded with anyone nearby for word on Helga. Bob didn't.

Only…Helga would never come to know of this amazing feat. Or indeed of her mother's hidden strength. Or did she? In a transcript of one of Helga's last visits to Doctor Bliss, Olga found:

> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: Tell me, Helga. Since San Lorenzo, has your relationship with your mother changed in any meaningful way?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Miriam? Nah, nothing's changed. She still lies all day every day in one of her stupors._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: But haven't you tried reaching out to her? You say she's an alcoholic, you've said so at numerous sessions. I know you to be wise beyond your age, so why not be proactive in trying to make a connection with her. Maybe be a catalyst in her recovery._
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Doctor, don't tell me you've started writing material for comedians now! Because that line was so lame I don't think even the most desperate stand-up would hire you!_
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss:_ ** _ Oh, I'm quite serious, Helga. When last have you bonded with her? Actually, let me rephrase that: have you ever bonded with her in any significant way._
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Ok, well...There was this road trip when she showed off her rodeo skills. I'll admit under duress that it was kind of cool spending time with her. And a time when she actually helped me with my homework without complaining once._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: See, Helga? She can't be all that bad if her maternal instincts are still intact._
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Listen, Doc. Two isolated cases do not a good mother make! As soon as we get home, it's back to the damn smoothies, the stupors, the hangovers, the blackout spells, the slurred speech, the whole nine freaking yards._
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: So she only drinks at home?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Well, yeah?_
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: When you and your father are home with her?_
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Yes! Doc, what's your point? Are you privy to some earth-shattering insight that I'm not seeing? Come on, out with it! And tell it straight!_
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: Very well, Helga. I think your mother is protecting you from your father._
> 
> ** _Helga Pataki_ ** _: Doc, I think you and I should switch places once more. How in the name of Chris Barrie did you arrive at that conclusion?_
> 
> ** _Dr. Bliss_ ** _: Think about it, Helga. Even when she's intoxicated, she'll make a concerted effort to connect with you. In fact, I don't believe you're the reason for her drinking; I believe your father is. She's under the influence so that he can focus his anger on her instead of you. And that's why I think she needs you by her side. I know you don't think highly of her, but as far as she is concerned, you'll never stop being her daughter and she'll do anything to protect you._

Olga felt her tears dripping off her cheeks and onto the desk and pages. She'd been wrong all the time. About Helga, who was dead. About Bob, whom she just now realized had been a prick to his family. About Miriam, who was much stronger than she ever let on.

Helga and Bob, it was too late to mend any relationship with them. It wasn't too late for Miriam.

Suddenly, Olga Pataki needed to visit her mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Same title, different meeting. Chapters 18-20, as well as the upcoming Chapter 21 all play on the different meanings of the word 'matter'. In 18 and 19, 'matter' is a noun meaning 'issue' or 'trouble'. For this and the following chapter, 'matter' becomes a verb meaning 'having importance or significance'.
> 
> Author's Note #2: For all the violence and adult themes and situations, this story remains essentially a 'Hey Arnold' story, and I used this chapter to touch on the fact that Arnold at his core remains every bit the helpful and loyal boy he's always been to those near and dear to him and also go out of his way to make amends to those whom he has wronged in any way.
> 
> Author's Note #3: Helga's case file was never intended to remain just a MacGuffin to set up the final confrontation, which by the way draws ever closer. I always had a more meaningful and benign use for it as well.
> 
> Author's Note #4: The more I worked explored Olga's character, the more I fascinated I became. She's so fundamentally flawed, so self-delusional about her family, but still very sympathetic as a character and I wanted to run with that interpretation of her. Plus, I also understood why she clicked so easily with Lila in the series: they were both cheerful exteriors masking overwhelming baggage.
> 
> And finally, the Spotify list for this chapter:  
Turn Back Time - Aqua  
Once Upon A Long Ago - Paul McCartney  
Stamina - Beatenberg  
Breathing - Watershed  
Unfinished Sympathy - Maxence Cyrin (Mental turmoil expressed beautifully over 88 keys)  
Red Rain - Gregorian (I know it's sacrilege not to go with the Peter Gabriel version, but this one has a much more mournful feel to it which worked more effectively)


	21. Because Family Matters (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Olga studies Helga's file and learns more about herself instead. Brainy helps Arnold muddy the waters around Vasquez's death. Phoebe comes to terms with her recent actions.

"…_Details surrounding the murder of Hillwood Police Detective Mark Vasquez are slowly beginning to filter in following the conclusion of the on-site investigation two hours ago. Sources close to the investigation have stated that the investigators are looking into the possibility of this killing is in revenge for the fatal capture of Vitaly Santalov by the late Detective Vasquez._

_Those same sources also say that preliminary evidence shows signs of – and I quote – 'a significant struggle', suggesting that the late detective had put up a fight before being shot nine times in the back and chest._

_Police are also concerned at not being able to locate Detective Vasquez's wife, Olga Pataki-Vasquez, whose phone was found at the scene. Her current location and condition remain a mystery and…"_

The television in Phoebe's main bedroom had offered this bit of news, a mere snippet picked from reams of fact and speculation. She and Arnold were encouraged that the police seemed to be looking at the crime as being related to organized crime and not a domestic squabble. They were then relieved when Brainy called Phoebe to announce the evidence he'd sent to the Commissioner in hopes of steering the investigation away from her, Arnold and hopefully Olga too.

Brainy then followed up with how after he delivered the bombshell, the investigation into the murder of Detective Mark Vasquez's murder was brought to an abrupt halt. Indeed, his sources had informed him that the investigators had concluded their work and the working theory was that the celebrated Detective Mark Vasquez was the victim of a hit staged in revenge by two or more parties still loyal to the deceased Vitaly Santalov – no other viable suspects were being considered.

So, having sensed a brief moment of respite in the storm, Arnold and Phoebe were now lying together in bed. He was down to his boxers and T-shirt; she was wearing an oversized sleepshirt into which she had allowed Arnold to help her change. While both agreed – _very_ reluctantly – that any form of intimacy involving physical exertion was out of the question given Phoebe's injured state, both still craved each other's physical contact. They settled on spooning as a compromise. Which was fine with Arnold; earlier he was fearing that he'd never have another chance to have Phoebe back beside him, to hold her close to him, to be as close to one with her as possible.

He planted a kiss on her cheek, then another on her nape, then once more on her collar. She responded to each one with a sensual, contented moan. "Someone's acting gratefully for my survival," she teased.

"Don't even joke about it," replied Arnold in such a way to convey his seriousness without ruining the mood. "I was fearing the worst. I was dreading we'd never have any more moments like this."

"If I didn't know better, Arnold," Phoebe butted in, "I'd think you were serious about loving me."

_Ha-ha_, thought Arnold, but before he could confirm just how right she was, she continued: "Because let me assure you, the feeling is 100% mutual."

Oh, how he wanted to continue the conversation and affirm his feelings all night long. But alas…

"You two!" barked Olga as she stormed into the bedroom. "I need to see my mother! Right now, in fact!"

Olga's sudden entranced snapped the couple out of their blissful zone as they quickly disentangled then seated themselves to face the new houseguest.

"Say what?" Arnold was the first to respond.

"You heard me!" fussed Olga. "I need to see my mother _before_ the police eventually catch up with me!"

"Olga, that is a most illogical and ill-advised move," rebutted Phoebe. "Think it through, please. Mark's dead and you're officially missing. The police's first action would be to contact your mother, maybe even surveil her, for a lead on your location."

"But didn't Arnold get rid of any evidence tying me to that cocksucker's murder?"

"True," agreed Arnold, before explaining further, "but that was just to buy you some time before we take down Scheck. Then miraculously, you are found, still alive. We spin some story that you knew he was crooked and how you and he became loose ends to Scheck and how you were lucky enough to avoid the hit and stay hidden."

"And just how sure are you that it will play out that way?" Olga challenged.

"Because the police have found incriminating evidence on Vasquez that we planted," Phoebe answered, "and another associate of ours provided further evidence of him confessing his corrupt behavior."

Arnold added: "With luck, you'll emerge unscathed."

Olga then eyed Arnold very warily. "You guys are going a long way out of your way to help someone who hates both your guts and will spit on your graves if you were to drop dead right now."

Arnold was unfazed. "Look, Olga. Hate me all you want. But when this is done, at least you'll be hating me while never having to look over your shoulder all the time and worrying if there'll be a target on your back."

"But there's no guarantee," countered the elder sister while trying not to show her surprise at the footballheaded man not caring one way or another about her hatred towards him. "It may not play out the way you're expecting it to."

"True, Olga, true," Phoebe weighed in. "Which is why I wouldn't advise taking any unnecessary risks at this delicate stage."

"Well, fuck you and your unnecessary risks, you harlot. I haven't forgotten that you and your boyfriend are the reason I'm holed up here and on the run in the first place. And If it's my fate to die tonight, then I absolutely _refuse_ to go before seeing my mother one last time! You owe me that much at least!"

"I owe you to get you out of this situation alive," Arnold's voice now reflected some testiness. "No more, no less."

"To hell with you then!" Olga's anger was becoming more emotional, with tears threatening to flow. "I'll go there myself if I have to!"

"No! Way!" Too risky!" Arnold fired back.

* * *

"_Police are also concerned at not being able to locate Detective Vasquez's wife, Olga Pataki-Vasquez, whose phone was found at the scene. Her current location and condition remain a mystery and…"_

_Oh no! _The shock from learning of Mark's death was bad enough for Miriam Pataki, but the latter part about Olga cost her what little calm she had retained.

She'd been browsing several tech sites, tracking the latest developments in cellular and computer technology. She was particularly interested in the most recent announcements regarding the latest lines of a specific brand of CPU's and how they were set to revolutionize the communication field. Miriam could only sigh in bemusement at how the same pundits had said the same about the previous generation's products, not even six months ago.

Satisfied that she had gathered all the pertinent information that she could, Miriam Pataki had then turned to the television for whatever might grab her attention. She settled on a drama series that wasn't particularly good, but still watchable. Then the show was interrupted by the shocking news story she'd just sat through, and of which she was presently trying to make sense.

_Who would be so brazen to kill a policeman_, she'd wondered. _In broad daylight, too?_

Furthermore…_Why Mark? He was such a good man!_ After his positive influence on Miriam and Olga, _what did he do to deserve this?_ And as if that bit of bad news wasn't bad enough…

_No, not Olga too! Not my one remaining daughter!_

Every worst-case scenario came flooding through her mind. Had Olga been kidnapped? Was she holed up in a dark cellar somewhere? Oh dear God, oh sweet Jesus! Was she dead? The dread was making Miriam Pataki feel severely ill.

_NO!_ She resolved that since the police didn't know yet what had happened to her, then there was still hope! While she was mentally playing with the different optimistic permutations, she heard the front doorbell.

_Great_, she suspired in irritation. The police, here no doubt to ask questions about Olga and her possible whereabouts. Which she'd be unable to answer since she was still very much estranged from her daughter despite all attempts at reconciliation.

She was mentally preparing to be of the least amount of use to whichever detective was at her door. Her surprise was therefore palpable to all assembled at her threshold: Olga, flanked by…who exactly? They looked so familiar. They looked like Helga's boyfriend with the weird head and the girl who was her best friend. Neither seemed in any good condition. The woman in particular: her face looked pretty banged up. She had in her possession an attaché case. The man, now _he_ looked pissed off, like being here wasn't his idea.

Their names…their names…

_Arnold! And Phoebe!_ What did they have to do with this matter?

_Not now_, she self-rebuked. What about Olga!

"Olga? Oh my god oh my god! Are you OK? Are you hurt? I heard it on the news I was so worried!" she exclaimed in panic and hysteria and pure unbridled relief and joy.

Olga stood in silence at her mother's reaction. Then, with a quivering lower lip and tears flowing from her eyes she managed a pathetic whimper: "M-…M-…Mommy...?"

That was enough for Miriam – _more_ than enough – as she lunged for her daughter and wrapped her in the warmest, firmest, most maternal hug she could manage. Miriam's waterworks were a match for Olga's as she responded: "Don't worry, Sweetie, Mommy's here. Mommy's always been here."

* * *

Arnold did not want to be there: the risk of Olga being spotted was too great. They'd driven to Miriam's brownstone in Arnold's Golf after leaving Arnie still sleeping on the couch. Arnold would have preferred to park away from the address, but the road was parked solid by the residents and the only available space just happened to be in front of their destination. Not ideal when being inconspicuous was the goal, but Olga had screeched up a shrill, high-pitched storm at his refusal to bring her here and he and Phoebe had to relent.

But what was done, was done when Miriam let them in.

This meant that Arnold would not be around to witness how lucky he was to have friends in low – practically underground – places. Shortly after the group's ingress, a police car arrived. Its occupants were two uniforms, sent to check up on Miriam Pataki, mother of the missing Olga Pataki-Vasquez. Confirm that she was fine, maybe coax her to the station for the detectives to ask their questions. They noticed a red VW Golf parked In front of her address, which they thought suspicious being that it was the only vehicle in the street with out-of-state plates. The prudent course of action was to run the plates, which traced back to—

"Arnold Shortman? The fuck is _he_ doing here?"

"You know him?" his partner was curious.

"Went to school with him, years ago."

"Oh? Sounds like you don't like him much," she pressed on.

"He was a stand-up guy," her rather burly partner replied. "I was a total loser back then, but he helped me out. Never gave up on me."

"You? A loser at school?" That was news to her. "But didn't you pass college, _and_ the entrance exam, to get this job?"

"Got him to thank for that. He helped me, got me back in the books. Wasn't great, but every day it got a little easier."

"And how lucky are we for that?" she approved, before switching to another line of questioning. "So why's he here? Think he's here for Miriam Pataki?"

"Well, she was his girlfriend's mother. _Former_ girlfriend, like killed-in-a-building-explosion former."

"Shit!" her surprise almost had physical substance, so palpable was it. "You mean that Pataki girl…uh, Helga, right? The Sunset Arms Incident!"

"Yep, losing her and his whole family tore him up so bad he just upped and left for fuck knows where."

"So you reckon he's up there catching up with the mother?" she asked.

"Even odds say he is," he answered in a tone that matched his certainty. "I'll bet you too, that our missing person, Olga Pataki, she's in there too."

"OK, now you're making shit up?" The partner now sounded leery at his train of thought, but she took the bait anyway. "Based on what, exactly?" she challenged, playfully.

"Based on almost every suspect we've had to collar. Guys…girls, who know we're looking for them and are laying low. Ninety percent of the time, we track them _where_ exactly?"

The lightbulb went on in her head and she sighed her response: "The mother's…"

"The mother's," he repeated. "Blacks, Latinos, the Russians, and Triads. Even the Aryans. Every time one of them fucks up and we want to have a chat, they'll bail to Mommy."

"Impressive," she dryly commented. "It's a wonder you haven't made detective yet."

"Not smart enough," he answered with a strong hint of self-deprecation.

They had been so engrossed in their little conversation that they barely noticed their screen. A flag had appeared beside the name of Arnold Shortman.

"_Extend all courtesy to Arnold Philip Shortman and all known associates. By order of the Mayor_," the burly officer read. "The fuck is this? Are we back in the Prohibition era?"

"Agreed," she replied. "Sounds like something they _would_ do for Capone. How do you want to handle it?"

"What _can_ we do? He's definitely inside there. We'll have to consider anyone inside with him a known associate."

"Are you seriously considering…" she asked. "Just now you said how certain you were that our person of interest was holed up in there!"

"_What?_ We're not disobeying orders; we're following them to the letter." With that, the big, muscular man put the car in gear and pulled away to continue on their patrol. "Besides, it's not like they don't know each other. It would seem cruel to interrupt their reunion."

"You're all heart, Torvald," his partner commended. "A real sweetheart when you want to be."

* * *

Hillwood Harbour was nowhere near the size or importance of any major West Coast counterpart like the Port of Los Angeles for example. But at least satellite surveillance was much easier with less area to cover, as Brainy was experiencing. On a forty-inch flatscreen, the images were detailed enough from altitude so as not to require too much zooming in. Not that there had been much to report. What he'd seen so far comprised mostly fishing vessels, the occasional luxury yacht to and from the marina, and a few small cargo boats.

Nothing eventful. Nothing meriting any great interest.

Another advantage for those looking to use Hillwood Harbour as a base of criminal activity, or indeed those surveilling it, was that it didn't operate 24/7. Thus, it was easy for the former to conduct their activities undisturbed while the latter could have an easy time spotting anything unusual.

So far, no unusual activities, and now it was knocking-off time. The stevedores were now spilling out the front gates on their way home.

Then came the quiet, the peace. About two hours' worth. Time enough to follow the news feeds. One developing story caught his attention. Apparently, the president of a Central American country called San Lorenzo had been implicated in some shady deals that had come to light. Several mining and mineral deals that could spell Armageddon for millions of acres of pristine jungle and coastline, not to mention the endangered, endemic fauna and flora therein. Greenpeace and the WWF had been anonymously informed about this wicked enterprise and were using all available channels to turn the screws on El Presidente. Reports were mentioning how thousands of activists were flying to the country to join the protests already underway by San Lorenzo's citizens. Word had apparently reached them as well about El Presidente planning to sell them out for billions of US Dollars, of which they wouldn't see a nickel. He got to see Eduardo give a series of interviews in English and Spanish on how their president, the man charged with guiding a country to prosperity had turned Judas and would now have to answer for his actions.

Eventually, the cycle started repeating itself, at which point he turned his attention back to the Hillwood Harbour footage. That's when he noticed the vans arriving.

* * *

"Olga, what have you done?"

Miriam Pataki was shocked beyond human understanding at what she had been told over the past half an hour.

Arnold's history. Phoebe's history. Everything.

Murder plots, shoot-outs, criminal conspiracies. Everything.

Mark. His duplicitous nature. His _corrupt_ nature. _Everything._

His infidelity. His attempt at murder. His death at the hands of Phoebe and Olga. _Everything!_

"Are you telling me that man, your husband, tried to kill you?" her voice verged on mania as she vented her disbelief.

"Yes-yes he did!" Olga was faring no better at keeping her calm. "But it was Phoebe he wanted to kill, and she happened to be with me at our house when he arrived."

Miriam's franticness instantly gave way to anger as she turned to glare at Phoebe, who was seated beside Arnold on a couch opposite the one which held the Pataki women.

"You mean that strumpet over there?" Miriam spat out as she maintained her glare towards Phoebe. Phoebe felt her innate confidence evaporate and she lowered her head, having no courage to explain herself. "And don't you _dare_ say how you saved Olga. You're the one who put her in danger in the first place! All because you…you…"

She'd continue berating Phoebe, but her tears were building up and would no longer be held back. Arnold had said nothing during this exchange. Instead, he was reflecting on why he was against this meeting happening so soon after Vasquez's death when emotions were still raw and rational thought had not yet shown itself. He continued watching as Miriam overcame her tears and resumed reaming out Phoebe.

"You…how do I know it wasn't _you_ who corrupted him? Mark was such a nice man, such a loyal husband. He was even trying to bring this family together. Now you sit there and tell me he had us all fooled, _all this time_? How _dare _you?" Despite the tears, her anger was rising again.

"Mommy, he fooled us both! He fooled us all," Olga spoke softly, almost contritely. "Us Pataki women sure can pick 'em, can't we?"

To which Miriam, along with Arnold and Phoebe, stared at her in shock.

"Please Mommy," Olga pleaded. "I…I didn't come here so that we could harangue Phoebe. I've come to accept that despite everything, I'd be dead but for her. Maybe not today, but sometime in the future maybe?"

"Then why, my daughter?" Miriam was confused, a state she was sharing with her other two guests.

"To tell you that I was wrong, and you were right all these years!" Olga's voice was breaking with each word. She paused to gather her emotions, before continuing: "When you testified against Daddy, I thought you were selling out on the family. I won't lie, I hated you, absolutely _despised_ you."

She stopped for a few more emotional sniffs, then: "I thought you stopped caring about us. Stopped loving us. Stopped loving me. I carried that ugly thought with me for all these years."

Miriam moved to counter. "Olga, Sweetie, I—"

"Please let me finish!" implored Olga. Miriam's silence signaled the go-ahead. "But you know what? Today I was shown a file, a thick one from very long ago. It was Helga's psych report with Doctor Bliss."

"Oh my god! Helga?" gasped Miriam while clutching at an imaginary heart attack. "How'd you get hold of such a document?"

Phoebe wanted to answer that question, but she felt Arnold's hand on her shoulder and turn to see him shaking his head, silently telling her that this was Olga's story.

"Not important right now!" insisted Miriam's one remaining daughter. "Anyway, you were mentioned in a lot of the sessions. Mostly very unflattering, to put it mildly. About how inattentive you were as a mother, how your alcoholism was affecting her."

"Olga, please understand!" Miriam attempted another interjection. "I was a different person back then and—"

"Still talking!" Olga cut her off while pointing at her mouth. "Anyway, I was no angel to her either. I always convinced myself that I loved my baby sister oh so much, but the reality was I was jealous that she'd take attention away from me, so I kept fighting for all your and Daddy's attention. Even if it meant driving her away."

The look in Miriam's eyes reflected old wounds being picked and scratched open. Nevertheless, Olga had to continue. "But I realized that I got it wrong. _I_ was the weak one in the family. _You_ were the strong one, you always were. You weren't getting drunk to avoid us. You were doing it so that bastard Bob could take his frustrations out on you instead of Helga. You're the one who stepped up to testify against him and put him away for good!" The tears were threatening to return, but she didn't relent: she _couldn't_. "Meanwhile, I was the delusional one, trying to keep together a family unit that was doomed from the start. And when it all fell apart, so did I. I'm the weak one."

"Olga, that's not true!" her mother blurted as she reflexively grabbed her daughter's hand.

"It is! It just _is_!" insisted Olga. "_You've_ at least put that part of your life behind you. _You_ turned a failing business around, and then some. _You've_ taken your life back! Meanwhile, I—"

"That's enough, Olga!" declared her mother, highlighting her words with another maternal embrace. She then cooed into her daughter's ear: "No matter what you say, you'll always be my daughter and I'll never stop loving you. _Ever!_"

At those words, Olga was overcome by her emotions and broke down into a sad mewl while still being hugged. "It's OK, Daughter", reassured Miriam. "Just let it out."

Through her mewling, Olga managed: "I'm sorry…"

Arnold and Phoebe let this display run its course before Phoebe chimed in. "Mrs. Pataki?" she ventured as she reached into her case. "Here's the file on Helga." She produced the file and held it out to the matriarch, who walked over from her side and readily accepted the offering.

Phoebe went on to explain the folder's contents, its chain of procurement and its intended criminal purpose towards Arnold.

"Good Lord," gasped Miriam, not for the first time. "You're saying this was all about getting revenge on Arnold for saving the neighborhood from Scheck? And Helga was used to get to him?"

"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Pataki." A solemn Arnold spoke his first words. "He thought my memories of her would make me an easy mark."

"I see…" trailed Miriam. "But you did love her, didn't you? I mean…back at the airport. San Lorenzo?"

Olga decided to answer on his behalf. "Of course he did! I'm telling you, Mommy, I don't recall ever seeing Helga as happy as she was on that day! Too bad…"

"Yeah, too bad," Arnold repeated. "Too bad it didn't last for long before she was taken from us."

Miriam caught on to the sense of loss and regret his voice had just projected. "Young man…Arnold…Olga is right. After you and Helga became a couple, she seemed so much happier at home. I'm not saying her life at home got any better. God knows, it didn't. But I recall her having more of a spring in her step every day. And I think that's all because of you." She then placed her free hand on Arnold's cheek, holding it there, full of warmth. "You brought her more happiness in those weeks than her own family did in her entire lifetime."

Arnold was rendered silent at that revelation. He watched next as Miriam hesitated, seemingly arguing internally with himself: a sort of _should I or shouldn't I_ moment.

" Arnold," she began, "you said you're a retired Army Lieutenant, right?

"Yes Ma'am," replied the ex-soldier, not knowing where Miriam was heading.

"Then answer this question, and answer truthfully, please. I always think of you as that sweet, helpful young boy from long ago. You're really the last person I would have imagined to serve in the Armed Forces. Did Helga's death have any bearing on your decision?"

It surprised Arnold how quickly he answered the question. "Yes. Yes, it did. Hers and Gerald's both."

"Gerald, you say?" she tried recalling that name. "Oh yes, he was your best friend, wasn't he?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And _you_," she turned to Phoebe, becoming angry in the motion, although her eyes did now convey a small measure of understanding. "You said that Helga was the reason you started your career and investigation?"

"Y-Yes, Mrs. Pataki," Phoebe squeaked. "Her…and Gerald as well."

"Gerald? And what exactly was he to you?" queried the elderly Pataki woman.

"He was my boyfriend at the time."

Miriam ruminated on their answers for a while longer, before speaking again.

"Come with me, all of you," she said. "There's something you need to see".

She led them up the stairs to her study, where she bade the trio to enter a dark, unlit room. They heard a switch being flicked at the doorway, and instantly the room was bathed in bright LED light. They were in a study, austerely furnished and appointed.

Desk.

Three chairs.

Laptop.

Router.

Printer.

Scanner.

Only the essentials. Even the shelf space was kept to an absolute minimum. _But why show us such a simple room_, Arnold and company asked in silent unison. Arnold was the first to see why, to shock and surprise to which he had believed he was long immune. Phoebe and Olga followed in short order with their own gasps from the shock of what they saw.

There, in a large frame mounted on a sidewall, it stood: the dress worn by Helga Pataki on that fateful day, complete with bloody flecks and grime marks, even the hole left by the pole that had pierced through her body. Draped above it was the pink ribbon that became the girl's trademark. It too bore the grimy, bloody legacy of Helga's final moments.

"All for the sake of torturing myself daily with the memory of how as a mother I failed my younger daughter when she needed me," Miriam answered their unasked questions from the doorway.

Her guests were speechless at the revelation. Olga and Phoebe were rendered paralyzed by the intense emotion; so was Arnold, despite his stoic exterior. Thus it was left to Miriam to fill them in about how she had claimed the items from Hillwood PD after their investigations had ruled Helga's death an accident to which no criminal culpability could be attached. She explained how afterward she went to great expense to have the items preserved and framed.

The party was still too stupefied to comment, which was understandable to Miriam. "It comforts me to know that she was loved while she was alive," she began. "And it shames me to say that I left it too late to tell her as much. But you…"

She then entered the room and walked to Olga, whom she embraced again as if the act would never become old. "She may be gone, but she brought my surviving daughter back to me and I'll forever be grateful for this."

She then moved to Phoebe, whom she promptly slapped across the cheek as soon as the Asian woman turned to face her. The slap reverberated across the sparse room, and Phoebe was left holding her stinging cheek in a state of confused pain.

"For insinuating yourself into Olga's life in the way you did," Miriam softly scolded, before reaching for Phoebe's comforting hand to hold in her own. She then lifted Phoebe's hand to kiss it. The kiss was as tender as the slap had been stinging. "For saving my elder daughter. And for being the person most loyal to my younger one. "

Arnold was next. When Miriam was in front of him, she simply leaned in for a soft kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, for loving Helga the way she deserved to be loved. For making her happy."

There was hardly a dry eye in the room as each occupant's memories of Helga came flooding back. Not even Arnold was insusceptible; this would be his first proper mourning of Helga in seventeen years.

* * *

The screen spared no detail.

As soon as the five vans came to a halt, they disgorged their occupants: a contingent of heavily armed individuals. Brainy watched as they dispersed across the harbor to secure the site. He remained transfixed by the practiced efficiency on display as each…what? Soldier? PMC? As each individual and group moved to accomplish their objective. The three nightwatchmen were no match for the enemies' tactics as they were overwhelmed, incapacitated and rounded up in short order. Next came the Harbour Master and crew. A group of enemies blitzed their office with stun grenades, then entered the room to drag out a motley band of dazed civilians. The sweep continued unabated; every nook was examined, every cranny explored. The net result was five vagrants being gathered as well.

Soon, it was all over. The captives were gathered together at a central outside location and kept under heavy watch. Among the captors, some had started patrolling the harbor perimeter, while the rest were setting up sentry stations. Except for the three who were moving to isolated locations. Brainy tracked one onboard a particularly big cargo boat, on the highest point of its superstructure. The second one's resting place was on the roof of a tall warehouse, also on the fringe of the harbor. The third one settled on top of a stack of shipping containers, some distance opposite the warehouse.

_Shit, snipers!_ That was the only conclusion that Brainy could draw. The sons of bitches were prepping a kill zone, no doubt for Arnold! Shit, he had to get hold of him, _fast!_

He was about to call Arnold with the information, only for his attention to be diverted by the arrival of a limo. It came to a halt near the vans, where only a single passenger exited: Scheck, it _had_ to be him. The elderly man strode over to the captives and spoke to one of his crew, presumably someone in charge. Brainy watched as Scheck spoke, then his underling spoke back, then Scheck spoke back in body language that even from space could be read as loud, demanding and profoundly displeased. He watched as the subordinate called together a group of his friends and headed for the captives.

In front of whom they stood.

In front of whom they…raised…their…weapons.

_Oh shit. That heartless motherfucker!_

The screen spared no detail.

It showed brief muzzle flashes from the weapons, followed by the captives dropping like ragdolls. It showed the shooters moving to stand over the downed victims for one more shot to each one's head.

_Fucking double taps_, Brainy cursed. _They were going to die no matter what!_

Scheck seemed unmoved by this activity. He moved to the deceased, where he casually produced a phone. _That sick fuck_, thought Brainy as he watched how Scheck took pictures of the dead; the fucker was even taking his time to get the angles right! Brainy then watched as he punched a button sequence on his phone. No prizes for guessing to whom he was sending the pictures. After some more fidgeting, the old man then held the phone to his ear – he was making a call. No prizes for guessing whom he was calling.

The shitty part of all of this was that Brainy couldn't call the police. Guaranteed, they'd been instructed to stay the hell away from the harbor for a specified period. Figuring that Arnold was about to be informed about this current development, Brainy dialed another number.

Four rings. Pick-up.

"Fuck off, Four-Eyes! I'm sleeping!" answered a gruff voice.

For which Brainy had no time. "Sheriff, you need to wake up. Shit's about to go down. _Tonight!_"

* * *

The rest of the visit was quite civil as the quartet fondly and remorsefully reminisced about Helga. Phoebe, in particular, felt her tongue loosen to the point where she divulged bits of her involvement – directly or indirectly, willingly or coerced – in Helga's furtive attempts to woo Arnold.

"So _that's_ why you were with Helga by my window that night?" Arnold asked.

"I'm afraid so," blushed Phoebe. "Pork rinds and somnambulism, who would have guessed there'd be a causal relationship?"

It may have been long overdue, but Helga was finally getting the wake she deserved from the surviving people who remembered her most fondly.

Miriam provided more details on her life post-Helga and post-Bob. No, she explained, she hadn't stopped drinking entirely. "It's just," as she elaborated, "after Robert's sentencing and our divorce, I realized I didn't need the alcohol as much as before. Five-a-day became five-a-week, then eventually three-a-month, _if that_."

Still, it didn't preclude Miriam from offering a round of whiskey to those assembled. Glenfiddich, she said it was – something she only saved for special occasions. Her gesture was accepted by all. Arnold even noticed how Miriam's relationship with alcohol had changed. The way she sipped her drink made it clear that she was now in control of her drinking instead of the other way round. An encouraging sign. And so the remembrance of Helga continued

Until a phone was heard ringing. One carried by Arnold. One not belonging to him, but to the late, unlamented Mark Vasquez. Seeing that, as well as the name on the Caller ID, Arnold went back to his steely military professionalism as he asked Olga and Miriam to leave the room.

"But why, Arnold?" asked a confused Miriam.

Olga, who recognized whose phone Arnold was holding, answered on his behalf. "Mommy, it's best if we're not around for this phone call." With that, she led her mother as they exited the room.

Having been granted the opportunity, Arnold answered the call.

"What?"

"Imagine my surprise, Arnold, to hear of the death of Detective Vasquez. Imagine my further surprise to here from my minion in CSU that his phone was nowhere to be found at the scene. Now I wonder just who could be in possession of that phone?" It was Scheck, sounding as unfazed as ever.

"Dear Boy, it's you I want! Well, you and that Heyerdahl woman. You might as well put the phone on speaker; let her join in the conversation." Scheck's calm demeanor was riling up Arnold badly, but he complied with the request.

"Miss Heyerdahl, a pleasure to finally hear your voice!" Scheck proclaimed with rehearsed cordiality.

"I can't say the feeling is mutual," was Phoebe's terse reply.

"Oh my!" Scheck's voice was one of admiration, not wounded pride. "You're every bit the firebrand I've been led to believe you are! It's such a pity I might not have the chance to get to know you – how shall I put it? – more intimately."

Phoebe was having none of his glib flattery. "I suppose then that you'll have to keep paying for female companionship."

Scheck should have been riled up by that comment. Instead, he maintained his detached demeanor. "Now I'm even more intrigued to meet you, my dear."

Arnold interjected sharply: "You lay so much as a _finger_ on her, you die painfully!"

"And what exactly has you so hot and bothered, Arnold? Could it be that she's spread her legs for you as well? Have you fallen for her charms?" The way he spoke that sentence made both Arnold and Phoebe feel suddenly very dirty. But before either could counter, Scheck continued. "Very well, she's excused from the game. _You_, however, are not. I've been preparing the playing field just for you, here at Hillwood Harbour."

"The hell are you on about? I know about your plans for San Lorenzo and how you bribed the president for the mineral rights. I've gotten the word out about it and—"

"Yes, I know," Scheck interrupted. "The deal's as good as dead and El Presidente is most likely to be ousted in all the controversy. I believe the locals have started revolting against him already. So am I worried? Not at all, Arnold, not at all. There'll be a replacement; there always is a replacement in the wings. And he – _or she_ – will be just as easy to coerce, and maybe a little more discreet."

"So San Lorenzo was just to get me out in the open, right?"

"Oh no! San Lorenzo _will_ go down eventually. You just won't be alive to see it happen."

_PING!_

"Finally!" exclaimed Scheck. "I believe you've just received my invitation. I'll wait for you to open it."

They did, and what they saw left them horrified. Pictures of a dozen or so bodies, each with a bullet hole or two in the chest, plus one in the head.

"You sick, godless, motherless _FUCK!_" Arnold spoke in escalating emotion and anger, while Phoebe recoiled at the sadism of which Scheck was capable.

"Anything to get the point across, Arnold," Scheck stated coldly and without emotion. "And by the way, no-showing isn't an option. No-show and three of my top operatives win themselves a trip to Honolulu, Hawaii."

Arnold witnessed Phoebe go ashen at that revelation.

"Miss Heyerdahl may be looking a bit fretful right now," Scheck pre-empted. "Could it be that her retiree parents just so happen to live there as well? Oh my, what _were_ the odds?"

Arnold kept looking at Phoebe as her legs buckled from the shock and she was barely able to catch herself from collapsing. "You have three hours to RSVP", he heard Scheck explain before the old man hung up.

"Phoebe," he turned to his shell-shocked companion, "this is serious business. I know, I know, I promised no unnecessary risks. But Scheck has escalated the game and I can't just ignore him. Besides, your parents may also be at risk and—"

He was cut short by two of Phoebe's fingers pressed against his lips. Her words were cold and simple: "How can I help?" As he was about to praise her splendor and magnificence, the study door swung open and in walked the Pataki women. They seemed to notice Arnold and Phoebe's worried expressions because Miriam's first words were: "How bad is it?"

Arnold, seeing no reason to lie, explained the situation as concisely as possible. He concluded: "No matter what happens, it ends tonight. No matter the outcome, Olga will be needing a lawyer." With that, he took out a scrap of paper that Brainy had given him and handed it to Miriam. "Call her any time, day or night. Tell her you're a referral from Brainy. She'll take it from there."

Miriam was touched by this gesture, Olga too.

"Arnold," proclaimed Miriam, "you've risked so much to help and protect us, and I can't begin to thank you enough…"

"_I_ can," corrected Olga. Her gesture took the form of walking over to him for a tight hug and a heartfelt, whispered 'Thank you'.

"But don't do it just for us," added Miriam. "This is for all those we lost, who were killed by that bastard! For Helga."

Arnold turned to face the framed dress and ribbon.

"For her especially," he determined. "In her honor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I read up on the possibility and viability of controlling one's drinking as opposed to going the Twelve Steps. So I made some assumptions on Miriam's circumstances and decided that Bob was her reason for drinking, and with him out of her life, her dependance on alcohol would be greatly diminished. At the very least it is a change from the common narrative of her going full AA and stopping her drinking entirely.
> 
> Author's Note #2: I hope I've made you dislike Scheck intensely in this chapter. I'm not going for a cartoony villain; I want a serious, amoral, stone-cold reprobate who doesn't deserve your sympathy.
> 
> And here's the Spotify list that most influenced this chapter:
> 
> Another Cup of Coffee - Mike and the Mechanics  
We Don't Need Another Hero - Nils Landgren Funk Unit  
Why Should I Cry For You? - Sting  
Mama - Spice Girls  
Twist In My Sobriety - Tanita Tikaram  
Woman in Chains - Tears For Fears  
Control - Unknown Brain


	22. The Best You Can Is Good Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: A happy and tearful reunion between Miriam and Olga. A look at how Miriam keeps Helga's memories alive. Insight into the lengths Sheck is willing to go to have his revenge on Arnold.

This kiss was as lengthy and loving as it was particularly melancholy and uncertain.

They were standing on Brainy's stoop, Arnold and Phoebe, the former gently cupping the latter's cheeks for this act. A parting gesture expressing their optimism that they would emerge from the forthcoming ordeal alive, and the dread that they wouldn't.

It was going on to one o'clock on Thursday morning, and they were all on a timetable. In front of the brownstone, two vehicles were parked. From inside his blue Chrysler, Arnie called out to the kissing couple: "Hey, you two! You can get a room later! We've got work to do!" Arnold's Golf was parked in front of him, awaiting its owner.

They'd concluded that Arnie's vehicle was safe to use again now that the investigation into the death of Detective Mark Vasquez was officially closed with no mention made of any vehicles reported leaving the scene. Good thing too, as they needed two sets of wheels for this endeavor.

And they needed to get going now, Arnold and Arnie would be in the field, while Phoebe and Brainy would support them from the brownstone. It took all of Arnold's willpower to let go of Phoebe and announce that he had to leave.

"Do be careful, Arnold," whispered Phoebe imploringly. "I'll consider any success in this mission moot if you don't return."

"I promise, Phoebe," he inspirited. And soon he too was in his vehicle and he and Arnie set off for their destinations and whatever awaited them.

* * *

Some hours ago, Arnold and Phoebe had left the Pataki household and were seated in the Golf.

Theirs was a shared expression of distress. Scheck wanted Arnold within a few hours and had conveyed his seriousness by having a group of innocent people around the harbor executed then taunting his quarry with pictures of the deceased. He'd raised the stakes even further by implying that harm – or worse – would come to Phoebe's parents if Arnold was not to appear at the designated area.

And unfortunately, the couple had no choice but to dance to Scheck's tune, despite any advantages they thought they had over him. The pictures of the dead were just those: pictures, showing an aftermath with no hint of who had committed the act. As for the threat against Phoebe's parents: what threats? Unfortunately, the justice system is never about what is implied or what lurks between the lines, but what can be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. And with what Scheck had told them, they could prove nothing. All that Scheck had told them was that some of his associates would be going on a trip, to a location where Phoebe's parents _just happened_ to reside. No more, no less.

"So what now, Arnold?" asked Phoebe, trying to maintain a cold, detached demeanor when in reality she was worried out of her mind about her parents' welfare. Kyo and Reba meant the world to her, and for Scheck to introduce them as pawns in this sick game – in which they had no role – was cruel and sick and…and—

"We take him down, of course. _Tonight._"

That statement irked Phoebe. "Arnold, listen to yourself! You're talking about facing impossible odds yet again. And now that he knows that you bested his men at the cemetery, you just know that he'll redouble his efforts for victory." Phoebe was back to her pessimism-disguised-as-pragmatism ways. "How many enemies will he throw at you this time? He tried fifteen the last time. This time…thirty? Plus _he'll_ be in _full_ control of the setting!"

"I say again, Phoebe, we'll win this one too. And before you ask, I don't know how yet. But I think I can start by visiting Big Gino's guy and at least find out what he can offer us."

"You mean the person Big Gino recommended we consult for help against Scheck?"

"Exactly," Arnold returned. "And before you ask, Big Gino has a lot to gain from our involvement. So no, he won't try to fuck us over."

Phoebe was quietly astounded at how well Arnold was beginning to familiarize himself with her little quirks and her thought processes. "I wasn't going to suggest that," she offered in her defence. "At least not in such crude terms," she concluded, under her breath. Not that it helped her, for Arnold caught on to her _sotto voce_ and couldn't help but reach for her left hand with his right. A motion that was readily accepted.

"We seem to be picking up on each other's habits, don't we?" he asked.

"Possibly," Phoebe replied. "And I'm hoping we'll be alive long enough to pick up on even more."

Having heard that, Arnold released her hand and started the car.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Sheriff, it's on. _Tonight_!"

Brainy had Arnie on the phone and was explaining what he had witnessed on the satellite feed. The number of hostiles ("_Forty!_"). The fact that they were serious (_"A dozen or so innocents killed just for being there!"_).

"Plus, they've set up three snipers to pick him off! He walks in there, he's dead before he even enters the front gate!"

"Snipers you say?" replied Arnie in a tone that didn't suggest he was taking the matter seriously.

Just as Brainy was about to reprimand the sheriff for his lack of concern, Arnie continued. "Tell me, Four-Eyes, what is the layout of the harbor? Where within are the snipers located. What can you tell me about the surrounding location and terrain? Any high-lying areas around the harbor where a counter-sniper could establish a nest?"

"_What?_" Arnie's questions left Brainy stumped.

"Dammit, Four-Eyes, our boy's about to march into an ambush and you're saying 'what'! Is there any high-lying ground around the harbor where I can counter-snipe any son of a bitch who wishes to do my cousin any harm? Yes or fucking no!"

Brainy was still stumped, so he conceded: "Look, I've got the satellite feed still running. Why don't you come over here, look it over yourself and make your own decision?"

"Not while my car's still hot! No way!"

"Not anymore! Didn't you hear? They're done with the Vasquez investigation. They're calling it death by Russian. Revenge for Santalov. No mention of any blue muscle car at the scene. You shouldn't have any problems with law enforcement."

"And you're willing to bet on it?"

"Sure, given that it isn't my car. Look, are you or aren't you willing to stick your neck out for your Coz, your _Boy_?"

"He's your Boy too, you know?" Arnie still wanted to argue.

"Damn right he is!" responded Brainy. "Why do you think I've been watching Hillwood Harbour's activity all this time? Now get your ass over here and sort yourself out!" He then hung up.

Arnie needed no further reminder as after the call, he retrieved a very large and heavy rifle bag before making his way to his car.

* * *

The location was in a junkyard. It was a cluster of shipping containers, stacked and arranged: repurposed as a makeshift building. Arnold and Phoebe noted how one of the ground units had had a door and windows fitted. Through the windows, they saw burning lights, a sign of occupation.

It made sense: they'd been expected for some time. It certainly explained how they were able to drive in unimpeded, with the night-watchman giving them and the vehicle only the most cursory of glances before safetying his meant-to-be-concealed Uzi. No questions from the man, just a point in a general direction: "That way."

They made their way into the structure, into how a pawn shop situated in the middle of a warzone might have looked. There was a heavy metal counter at the end farthest from the entrance, with Lexan panels offering further protection to the proprietors. Furthermore, several cameras were recording from different angles to discourage even the notion of perfidy.

"Well, you can't say they're not security conscious," remarked Phoebe in hopes that the levity would ease her nerves.

"What say we find out who's in?" replied Arnold as he headed for the counter. He was almost there when a stubby balding man emerged from behind a curtain to take his place at the counter. From what Arnold saw, the man had intended to be the model of how not to conduct customer service, but as soon as he focused on his client, his eyes widened in disbelief of sort as if he was told that someone looking like Arnold would be there but not believing a word of it.

The man spoke first.

An instruction: "All phones switched off and on the counter, please." Which they obeyed.

Another instruction: "Magazines ejected from weapons, please. Weapons on safety and on the counter." Which Arnold obeyed.

Then: "By any chance, are you the referral from Big Gino?"

"Uh, yes?" answered Arnold. "How'd you know?"

"Never mind that," shorty returned curtly. "I was supposed to help you, but now…change in arrangements." Then: "Hey Bridget! Your appointment is here!" he turned to shout at someone behind the curtain.

Bridget? Could it be…t_hat_ Bridget? _No way_…was what he wanted to think but given what he had faced since Phoebe came knocking at his door – shit, that was four days ago! – what more was there to surprise him?

"Well? Send him in already!" an angry voice shouted back from behind. A familiar husky voice. Coarsened with age maybe, but nonetheless familiar.

The man moved to open a section of the counter to let Arnold in and was about to close it on Phoebe when he felt a hand from Arnold on his shoulder and saw a look on his face that said Phoebe would go wherever he went, period. As hardened a man that the proprietor was, he quickly saw the futility of further argument and relented. The couple walked through the curtain and into a storage area that comprised two containers being joined together. If the word 'resplendent' could also be applied to weaponry, then this area was an ideal candidate for that adjective. Every available flat surface was occupied with either firearms, ammunition or other combat paraphernalia. And at the opposite end of the room, an auburn-haired sylph in her late thirties, maybe early forties.

"_Bridget!"_

Wearing the same dark blue catsuit showing off how kind the years had been to her.

"Hello there, you footballheaded cutie!" Bridget announced in the same flirty yet serious voice that Arnold had never forgotten. "Wow, look how rugged you've become!"

She walked over to Arnold, circling him as she assessed his twenty-eight-year-old build from top to bottom with utmost approval. "Oh yes," she commended. "You look like you know how to handle your weapons."

Suddenly, in one sleek motion, Bridget grabbed his right wrist with her left hand and before he could react, she had his palm upturned and was running her right hand across it.

Phoebe was about to exclaim some or other variation of '_What the hell!_' before Bridget coolly commented, "And you know how to shoot them, too! What rough calluses!" Oh god, was she being aroused by what she was seeing and feeling?

"So Arnold," her tone now had a _strictly business_ vibe. "Who'd you piss off this time and why is Big Gino so interested in you that he referred you to me specifically? Regular referrals get sent to Anwar, the midget you met earlier."

"_I HEARD THAT!_" Anwar shouted from the adjacent container as if hoping it would imply dire consequences.

Bridget made a display of dismissively waving him off while not diverting her attention away from Arnold. "Anyway," she resumed her questioning, "I'm listening."

By now, Arnold had become so used to explaining the story so far that he was able to tell the whole tale in less than two minutes without sacrificing too many details. Phoebe provided color commentary in between.

Bridget let out a loud whistle at what she'd been told, while from the reception area, Anwar let loose with an astounded "_Damn!_"

"Who asked you, Anwar?" scolded Bridget. Then back to Arnold: "Sounds like you need some serious hardware. No wonder Gino sent you my way! If I may ask, what are you packing right now?"

"You'll have to ask Anwar over there," replied Arnold. "He's holding on to my phone and weapon."

The frustration was clear on Bridget's expression as she shouted: "Anwar, bring me this man's weapon!" Which the diminutive man promptly delivered. Arnold's former quartermaster took the Glock, inspected it then let out a second whistle. "A .45, huh? I see you're still not one to do anything by half. So, any idea of what you'll be needing?"

The surgical specificity with which Arnold outlined the possible battlefield parameters and how they might tie in with his choice in weaponry, impressed Phoebe greatly while scaring her ever so slightly as she feared he was regressing back into the ghost-faced killer from the cemetery, a sort of Dark Arnold persona.

Bridget merely looked on as if he had provided the bare minimum with which she could work. "One moment please," she said before disappearing with Arnold's pistol into another section of the structure.

"Arnold, kindly enlighten me," demanded Phoebe now that she had the chance. "What, if any, shared history do you two have?"

"She helped me and Gerald save the neighborhood from Scheck," Arnold explained matter-of-factly. "Didn't Gerald mention anything about her?"

"No, not at all," recalled Phoebe. "He was too shell-shocked after the bus crash. I feared raising the matter at the inappropriate time might trigger some form of PTSD. Gradually, I became less aware of the matter and forgot to bring it up."

"Well anyway, she hooked us up with some really nifty spy gear. Real James Bond Junior stuff. Helped us get into FTI headquarters, allowed us to put Scheck away."

"Oh? But how come I never saw any mention of a 'Bridget' on any of the court documents pertaining to that matter? Nothing on any depositions or on any discovery documents? Nobody named Bridget was mentioned on any list of witnesses and— "

"Let's just say I've always valued my privacy." It was Bridget again, this time wheeling a cart into the area. "Here, these should serve your needs just perfectly."

She then went about explaining her selection. "Heckler and Koch G3A4, sliding stock cuts down on the overall length. Plus I swapped out the barrel for a heavier version. Shoots cooler, less recoil. Two drum mags, fifty rounds each instead of twenty."

_Nice_, thought Arnold in silent approval.

"Your sidearm," as she handed his Glock back to him. "I installed a compensator on it. Less recoil when shooting. And here. Two +2 mags, fifteen rounds instead of thirteen, plus your standard one, reloaded. That ought to be enough firepower. Now, _this_!" She focussed on the body armor on the trolley. Doesn't look like much," she pointed out, not without merit as the vest looked light and flimsy, barely capable of stopping a pellet shot. "But rated Level 4, able to stop a .50 BMG round. No bullshit; I tested it myself. Ain't adaptive nanotechnology a thing of wonder? You'll still feel the energy dump, so don't make catching big bullets a habit, OK? You'll be fine with 9mm, and rifle rounds. Again, don't make it a habit."

Arnold was deeply, profoundly impressed at how exactly Bridget had picked out his combat load and nodded to express as much. Just one thing, "Got any flashbangs I can use, maybe some two-way radios?"

Bridget's answer was to lift the body armor to reveal a trio of stun grenades, together with a similar number of radios units complete with earpieces. "Anything else?" she asked with a smirk.

"Actually, yes," Arnold said. "Not that I'm complaining right now, but how'd you go from back then to…this?"

Without sounding defensive, Bridget replied: "How's this any different from back then? I was always an arms dealer of sorts. I just upskilled and got with the times."

At this point, Phoebe had also become interested in Bridget's history and so joined in: "If I may ask, what prompted you to adapt your skill set?"

To which Bridget suddenly took on a mournful look. "Carelessness," she spoke as a reluctant admission. "Carelessness, and stupidity. About the same time The Sunset Arms went down, our base at the harbor was attacked. The whole thing was carried out by Santalov and his goons. The thing about that day…that's when I found out how kids' toys and trick accessories don't do shit against guns and bullets. They killed everyone that day. Except me."

Phoebe and Arnold recoiled at the recollection, bracing for worse to come.

"You know what you told me about Scheck teaming up with Santalov in prison? Turns out we never kept tabs on the penitentiaries. How naïve we all were, thinking prison would be the end of the matter. Scheck must have remembered me from when I slid down with the VCR, then sicced his Russian buddies on my organization. Anyway, once they rounded up and killed all my girls – a headshot for each of them with me watching helplessly – they had something special planned for me. Something that involved that bastard Santalov himself emptying seven 9mm rounds into my legs. Then they torched the base and the bodies and dumped me at the clinic with a note stapled to the one leg. 'Good luck saving these! #Smileyface.'

"Oh god, Bridget!" Phoebe winced at the description of the horror scene. "So they kept you alive only as a sign of contempt! But at least the doctors were able to save you, right?"

Bridget's mournful look did not go away as she recounted: "_Most_ of me, anyway." For added effect, she held the metal cart steady before swinging her right leg hard against the metal. Instead of flesh hitting metal, her customers heard a clanging sound: hardened, toughened polycarbonate hitting the metal instead. "They saved the left, but the right…muscle damage, nerve damage…too severe, so they had to amputate."

Phoebe's reaction was one of distilled emotional contrition: "Bridget, please forgive me for prying the way I did. I didn't mean to—"

Bridget raised a hand to silence her. "Don't be! At least it's another way of knowing what you're up against as if you didn't already. Anyway, it didn't stop me. As soon as I was back on my foot – a little amputee humor there – I was back to keeping tabs on the slime of Hillwood. Even branched out into arms dealing. Eventually got the attention of Big Gino. He took me aboard, even settled my medical bills as a sign of good faith, basically he let me be me. And here we are."

"Bridget," began a solemn Arnold. "I don't think I'll ever be able to apologize enough for getting you involved with Scheck, but thank you so much for all you did, then and now."

"Aww, look!" commented a playful Bridget. "Soldier Boy still has a sentimental side! Look, none of this," she continued as she rapped against the prosthetic leg, "is on you. _I'm_ the one who got careless, so only I get to feel sorry for myself!"

She noticed how Arnold's mood hadn't lightened. "But…if you _insist_ on some token to show your remorse, then c'mere!" Again she moved before Arnold could react, so he couldn't stop Bridget from advancing up to him and kissing him long and sensually on the mouth, her provocative lips overloading his sensory faculties. "I _knew_ I should have kissed you instead of your friend back then!" said Bridget once she was done.

She then turned to Phoebe, who she found mouth agape at this unexpected spectacle. "What's the matter? Feeling left out?"

With that said, she moved in on Phoebe to pinch her chin gently and administer a kiss of equal ardor to the one she just gave Arnold. When all was done, Bridget faced her flabbergasted clientele.

"And that concludes the transaction, Ladies and Gentlemen. Off you go!"

* * *

"I see you've met Bridget. She's something else, right?" he chuckled.

The armed guard at the exit smiled as he waved them on their way. They'd retrieved their phones and the Golf was now laden with Arnold's purchases. But what seemed to tickle the guard the most was the dazed expressions worn by the vehicle's occupants. Outward and onward they drove, in silence until Phoebe initiated the conversation.

"Well, _that_ sure takes me back."

"What do you mean?" Arnold's curiosity quickly overcame him.

"Arnold, in the interest of _full_ disclosure, I wish to revisit one particular aspect of my sexual history to which I previously alluded."

_Oh, this might be interesting_, thought Arnold.

"Go on," said Arnold.

"I mentioned a dalliance with one of my college lecturers. What I omitted was that the lecturer was a woman thirty years my senior. Oh, the techniques I learned from her during those two months…"

"So why'd you break up?" Arnold's curiosity hadn't abated.

"You mean, age difference and issues involving collegiate ethics notwithstanding? Truth is, I was going through something of an experimental phase. I won't say the relationship wasn't without its benefits, but ultimately I decided it wasn't for me. We parted ways amicably enough, and still correspond occasionally."

"That's…interesting," commented Arnold, somehow grateful that he had something other than the pending confrontation to ponder. "But really, I can't say I'm surprised."

"Excuse me?" Phoebe was thrown for the proverbial loop.

"I mean why anyone, man or woman, could fall for you. You probably don't realize how cute and sexy you sound when you use your advanced vocabulary. At least, that's how I see it. And besides, any relationship needs some mystery to keep things interesting."

"So, we're in a relationship, are we?" interposed Phoebe.

"Maybe not in the most conventional sense, but I'd like to think so," Arnold shot back.

"So would I, Arnold," a wishful Phoebe echoed his sentiments. "Very, very much."

"Tell you what. Once we're done with this nasty business, would you be interested in how long we can make us last and how interesting we can make it?"

The discussion may have maintained its current trajectory had both participants' phones not come to sudden beeping life to announce several texts, IM's and missed calls from Brainy. Suddenly, the reality struck them that the Scheck matter was yet to be finalized.

The common thread within Brainy's messages was that he and Arnie were assembled at his place and that they needed Arnold and Phoebe there as well, as soon as humanly possible. A feat Arnold accomplished easily enough despite a brief stopover at Phoebe's house.

* * *

For Phoebe, there was no sense of occasion upon realizing that Hillwood's finest CI was living so nondescriptly in a uniformly anonymous part of town. If not for the presence of a blue 300C parked outside the residence, she'd have lost it among several surrounding structures of similar design. Still, she concluded, the living arrangements would suit the needs of someone trading in secrets and sensitive information and thus required – indeed, couldn't function without – the ability to blend in almost anywhere.

Brainy let them in. He hardly noticed the satchel that Arnold had slung over his shoulder. He was more interested in where the fuck they'd been. Arnold's explanation detailed how they had reunited Olga with her mother, and also their visit to Bridget. _Minus_ one or two aspects regarding the latter. Brainy seemed upset by their tardiness as he led them inside, where they found Arnie studying a real-time satellite feed.

"I still think you're fucking deluded," Brainy called to Arnie, which Arnold and Phoebe read as the resumption of an ongoing argument.

"OK, you two, what is it _this_ time?" asked a weary Arnold as he gave a look to Phoebe telling her that the bickering between Brainy and Arnie was a regular event and that she'd do well to get used to it.

"It's Scheck, Arnold!" answered Brainy as he directed the visitors' to the screen. "He's at the harbor and he's having your kill zone set up. Know what he did to show he's serious this time?"

"He killed a group of civilians who just happened to be there?" Arnold responded, struggling to inhibit his bile and anger. "He sent me pictures after the fact."

"I knew he would. I saw the whole thing via satellite. He ordered the killing, stood there like they were nothing," mourned Brainy. "The shitty thing is, I've been hearing talk of Big Gino eating into the people Scheck owns, turning them over to his side. But still, Scheck has more than enough people left over on his side to make what he's done go away."

"It's worse than that," added Arnold as he turned to Phoebe, gesturing for her to explain further.

"That monster obtained my parents' address…" she paused and choked as the weight of the matter returned to her, threatening to overcome her. "And he's threatened to have them killed if Arnold fails to appear at the venue. By my estimate, we have about ninety minutes before he loses patience."

"OK, guys," Arnold was focussed back on Brainy and Arnie. "So why were you two at each other this time?"

Brainy began the explanation by pointing back at the satellite feed, He pointed out to Arnold and Phoebe the general layout of Scheck's designated meeting area. The four roving patrols, all in two-by-two cover formation, the stationary sentries guarding arterial walkways and other major foot traffic intersections and the unit designated to guard Scheck.

"…but most disturbing are these three." Brainy then zoomed out the picture and pointed out the three snipers, nested where they were, on a roughly two-hundred-yard radius from Scheck's location.

"And Bob Lee Swagger over here reckons he's got you covered…" he paused as he zoomed out even further and further _still_. "…from _here_!"

'_Here_' was a tall abandoned warehouse, situated six-hundred yards away, on the opposite bank of the Skookumchuck River, into whose mouth Hillwood Harbour was built.

"I can make those shots," Arnie answered, softly and confidently, not looking at those in his vicinity.

"Arnie, I tend to agree with Brainy's assessment," Phoebe weighed in. "The distance may be a little overwhelming and—"

"I have a full, uninterrupted line of sight. The target area is sufficiently lit for me. I can _make_…those…shots." Arnie repeated, no less calm but now his tone suggested an end to the argument.

"Guys, If Arnie says he can make the shot, then he can make it," Arnold vouched for his cousin, in whom he'd now have to trust his life. The seriousness of his endorsement was enough to ensure no further argument from Phoebe or Brainy. "Besides, I have enough faith in all of you to entrust you with my life."

And so re-emerged the tactician in Arnold. Arnie would provide sniper support. Phoebe was to be his spotter again, using the satellite feed.

"And Brainy…you monitor the police frequencies," because…of _course_ he always did. "Plus, you need to work on another of your care packages."

"O-_K_?" queried Brainy. "Anything particular you had in mind?"

Arnold took this as his cue to open up the satchel to reveal a laptop, which he presented to Brainy. "Drone footage from the cemetery shootout, clearly showing yours truly as the intended victim."

"Also," quipped Phoebe, maybe a bit too enthusiastically, "recorded audio. Confessions from multiple parties that this was indeed an attempt on Arnold's life. Including an admission from none other than Scheck himself!"

"Then there's this," Arnold added as he held out Vasquez's phone. "Pictures he took of the people killed at the harbor."

Brainy smiled wickedly at this revelation. "I'll have a package in the Commissioner's inbox within the hour!"

"Actually, no! Can you send it to Big Gino instead?"

Brainy's smile disappeared. "And why _him_, Arnold?"

Phoebe answered on Arnold's behalf: "Think it through, Brainy. If the evidence comes from you, do you think they'll really act upon it? From what you told us about Gino, he seems to have more leverage and so anything he sends will carry more weight and urgency."

As usual, Phoebe's logic was infallible, and Brainy relented.

"OK, the clock is ticking. If you'll allow me, please?" announced Arnold before disappearing from the room. He soon re-emerged, wearing the body armor from Bridget and the overcoat from the cemetery encounter.

As Arnold and Arnie headed for the door, with Phoebe to see them off, Brainy remained behind to place another call.

"Brainy?" despite knowing his name, Sheena still addressed him by his nickname.

"Hello, Sheena," and Brainy always made a point to be polite with her whenever he could.

"Is this business or pleasure tonight?"

"Still business, sorry. Someday soon I hope for it to be the other option."

"OK, I'm in. But I'm holding you to that other option!"

"Listen, are you still on duty? Because I got wind you may have a patient within the next two hours. Hillwood Harbour. I'll let you know if and when it's a go."

"High risk?" Sheena asked, sounding wary.

"Not for you," Brainy reassured. "Never for you. For as long as I draw breath."

* * *

"You are such a footballhead!" said the blonde girl in the pink dress, from the passenger seat. "Always have been, always will be! A footballhead to the very end!"

Despite her harsh words, her tone was more down-hearted.

"I told you, getting revenge won't bring me back! And as much as I still love you and will continue to love you for all eternity, you need to put me in your past now!"

"It's no longer just about you," Arnold answered from the driving seat. "My birth country is now at risk. Phoebe's parents are now at risk. It's no longer about me wanting to do this. It's something I _have_ to do."

"Do you always have to be the martyr in your own story?" the eleven-year-old Helga accused him. "Do you thrive on taking on too much, and failing?"

Arnold remained silent while concentrating on the road ahead.

"Oh, you're good at starting things but terrible at finishing! Mister Hyunh's daughter? Stumbled at the final hurdle. FTI? Failed in your original plan to retrieve the original document! San Lorenzo? Lost the Corazón and couldn't even insert a freaking locket in its place!"

"Luckily I always had you watching my back," Arnold didn't hesitate, answering as if Helga's words bounced right off him, which they did.

"Woah! You knew I helped find Mai?" Helga's apparition was taken aback. "_How?_"

"I didn't, and thanks for confirming that," replied Arnold as he smiled slyly at Helga. "And in any case, I'm not alone in this. I've got Phoebe, Brainy and Arnie helping me. Without any of them—"

"Yeah, I know!" pouted Helga. "You might as well shoot yourself now!"

"Still hanging on to my every word, even from the beyond."

"What can I say, my beloved?" she teased. Oh, how good she was at teasing. "Mine is love unbounded by such insignificant matters as life or death, time or space."

After that brief bit of cheerfulness, Helga returned to her original dour setting. "But seriously, my beloved, you gain nothing if you get yourself killed tonight. Two girls will be shattered beyond repair at your passing."

"I told you, I'm not dying tonight." His words reflected his resolve.

"I know, I've seen you come back from all sorts of impossible situations. It doesn't stop me from worrying about you. My only wish is for you to find someone who gives you the same love, kindness, acceptance, the same unbridled giddiness, that you gave me. Only for longer. Much longer, because you more than anyone needs to know again how it feels to love and be loved."

And on that note, Arnold had reached his destination: an isolated alley some distance away from Scheck and his army. He'd still have to leg it over the remaining distance, but at least his chances of detection would be greatly reduced, if not entirely eliminated.

He could only hope.

He exited the vehicle to retrieve the carbine from the trunk.

"Hey, can I ask you for a favor?" It was Helga, now stood behind him. He turned weapon in hand, to face her.

"Yes?"

"Well, I first need you to kneel down," she explained with trace amounts of shyness.

He was slightly confused. "Excuse me?"

"Well, I'm still not quite down yet with all the angelic techniques. I haven't quite mastered floating and hovering. You'd think living here would come with a manual or something. But what the hey, what's seventeen years against all eternity? Now _kneel!_ Please?"

He obeyed and dropped to one knee, which brought him down to Helga's height. Helga then walked up to him, where she tentatively and slowly lifted a hand to his cheek. Amazingly, he felt her touch: her hand had taken on a corporeal form. He watched her hesitate, before slowly bringing her face closer to his, her lips closer. She closed her eyes as her lips made contact with his. Kissing an angel: it was happening, and his nerves were feeling every tingle from top to bottom. He closed his eyes to take in the moment, to savor it. He felt the smack of her lips pulling away. He opened his eyes to find her not there anymore.

"Please don't forget me, even when you find your closure and happiness."

Her words, spoken after her disappearance. Lingering in his mind. He picked himself up and locked the vehicle. There was work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: By no means do I consider myself a gun nut, but I do believe in researching a topic to the best of my ability. My choice for the carbine was based primarily on the question: 'What rifle would Arnold the soldier use?' After reading through my entire run of 'Punisher Armory' issues and watching several Youtube videos, I settled on something simple, nondescript, effective and reliable.
> 
> Author's Note #2: The word 'cemetery' is quite painful for me. Just under three years ago, I entered a general knowledge quiz hosted by a local radio station. I won it, but during the final round I was asked to spell the word 'Cemetery', which I spelled 'C-E-M-E-T-A-R-Y'. Despite that blunder, I held on for the win and have been kicking myself ever since for that misspelling.
> 
> Author's Note #3: I was inspired by the final scene with Arnold and Helga by two anime titles. The first one is 'Sola' - which I highly and thoroughly recommend. In it are two characters: a young girl about Helga's age who is unable to age, and her 30-something companion who was her childhood friend. Not nearly as questionable as it sounds! The second inspiration was 'Armitage III' - an oldie but a goodie - which featured a couple with a similar dilemma in their age difference. Again, not at all as inappropriate as it sounds!
> 
> Author's Note #4: I hope the payoff with Big Gino's 'guy' from Chapter 11 ( to be replaced by 'her' in Chapter 19) was worth the wait.


	23. How To Isolate The Isotope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: With the stakes raised to their highest levels, Arnold and the motley bunch move to execute the (hopefully) final confrontation against Scheck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

_One. Two. Three._

_One…Two…Three…_

_One, on the boat. Two, on the furthest container. Three, nearmost container._

_One, bang…Two, bang…Three, bang…_

Arnie was at his designated location, all set up and cycling through his main targets. Furthest one was eight hundred yards and change; closest one, about six hundred. The one on the boat, somewhere in between, but at an awkward angle. Awkward, but not impossible.

"**_You realize, Sheriff, that you're going out there with the intent to commit murder."_**

Brainy's words back at the brownstone, highlighting his concerns as Arnie laid out his plans.

"**_Not so, Four-Eyes. I'm acting on a tip from the most credible source I've ever dealt with, to investigate and possibly prevent an imminent homicide from being committed. Use of lethal force may be unavoidable."_**

Arnie's counterargument, against which Brainy had nothing. Back in the here and now.

_First one, most difficult shot; take him out first, maybe get his partners to look his way._

_Second, possibly with line of sight. Take him next, before he can spot me._

_Third one, back towards me. No time for him to turn around; take him last._

He could do it; he could make those shots. He kept reassuring himself as he cycled through the targets.

_One…Two…Three…_

He had the equipment: a McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle, fitted with God's own telescopic night vision sight and enough aftermarket goodies for him not to require a spotter. It was, in sniper parlance, a fucking big gun, able to send a very big bullet, very far and very quickly. Just as well, as every split second would be precious: there simply was no room for error.

_Ah, showtime!_

Arnold had come into view; he was walking, weapon in hand, into the designated kill zone. "Arnold, shots acquired. All three," he spoke into his mic.

"Hold position, Arnie," Phoebe whispered back via her channel. "Fire only on my word."

"Arnold, I hope you know what you're doing," Arnie whispered back, airing the last of his doubts.

"Arnie," chided Phoebe, "Arnold is putting himself at risk for all our safety. All we can do now is trust his judgment."

They all trusted Arnold's judgment, even as the poorly lit kill zone suddenly became bathed in the light from numerous LED spotlights and numerous armed PMC's sprung out to face him, weapons drawn, trained and live.

_Don't panic_, Arnie reminded himself. _He knows what he's doing. All part of the plan._

* * *

"**_And how do you know he won't have you killed on sight?" Arnie had asked Arnold as the latter was formulating his plan in the brownstone._**

"**_Trust me, Arnie. He won't," Arnold answered confidently._**

"**_And how can you be so certain about that prediction?" Phoebe's tone of uncertainty had matched Arnie's._**

** _Arnold's reply: "His ego. It won't be enough for him just to beat me. He'll want to humiliate me. He'll want to gloat over his victory, make me realize that there's no escape and remind me that he always wins in the end. So no, he won't want to do this quick; he'll want to draw it out to savor the victory. Just remember, Arnie. Wait for him to say the words before you fire."_ **

"**_But why would you want to prolong the danger? One shot from Arnie may be all that's required."_**

"**_Only, Olga may still be at risk. Look, I know that Hillwood PD has closed the case. But what if – just…what if – they decide to reopen the investigation? They'll come after her with more questions, they might tie her in with Vasquez's death. We do this right, they won't dare reopen it."_**

True to Arnold's word, Scheck's men held their fire when the smart tactic would have been to drop him then and there. Scheck himself was some distance behind the firing line, though the cool night air helped him project his voice over the entire area.

"Arnold! So _exceedingly_ nice of you to join us!" Scheck seemed chipper indeed.

"Not that I had much choice!" Arnold was doing his part by pointing his weapon down, not wanting to set off his adversaries. Not yet, anyway.

"Now that's a lie and you know it!" Scheck replied, to which Arnold and his crew nodded as they recognized the beginning of a gloating session. "You needn't have come here at all! Of course, there would have been a severe penalty for non-participation. But still, you _had_ the choice!"

"So is this how it's going to play out?" Arnold ventured. "I still have questions. Like why target all my friends and family? Why not just go after me?"

"But we _did_, Arnold! We did!" Scheck feigned innocence. "That's only because our inside man _forgot_ to mention that there'd be bystanders on the day. Tragic, isn't it? Even more tragic was you being delayed, unable to make it in time for your own surprise!"

_Inside man?_ Arnold let that question go unasked. _No, best to keep him talking. Seems like he's on a roll._

"You know what's even more tragic? Not everyone was happy with you saving the neighborhood! Several of those people who sold their businesses wanted to move out. Then when they got their title deeds back, they had to undo all their moving arrangements and start their businesses again from nothing. Then there was Robert Pataki. You stopped me from buying him out, only for him to watch his business go to shit! Now if he had stayed on board with me, even when beepers would eventually go the way of the dodo I'd have bought out his stake at a very healthy premium. Enough for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life."

"Arnold, disregard him!" It was Phoebe's urgent whisper. "He's twisting your sense of honor into guilt! Keep your head. Remember the plan! _Your_ plan!"

"That's always been your problem, Arnold," Scheck resumed his prodding. "You were always a boy playing adult games. Never seeing the big picture, always seeing good guys or bad guys. Always thinking the bad guys would stay down after one good blow. And look at what that got you!"

"That's bullshit, Coz, and you know it!" Arnie took a turn at stabilizing Arnold, who was still holding on to his composure.

"The truth is," continued Scheck, "is that guys like me make shit happen. _We_ add value. _We_ put food on people's tables. _We_ grow economies! Take us out and all you'll have is your moral victory with fuck-all else to show for it! Your politicians, your authorities? They won't come _near_ us!"

"So they let you get away with murdering innocent children?" asked Arnold.

"That was a tragedy, dear boy!" Scheck replied callously. "On the plus side," he continued, "I was able to deal with your co-conspirators in the process. That nigger friend of yours, for instance…"

Arnold held steady with gritted teeth, his trigger finger begging to squeeze out all the rounds in his carbine at Scheck. He knew that Scheck was provoking him to raise his weapon and give the men cause to gun him down. He held his nerve and stood fast. Scheck kept smiling, knowing that Arnold was rattled.

"Oh, was that a nerve I struck? For what it's worth, you were supposed to die with him. He and that blond girl. Pataki's daughter. You know, the one you fell head over heels for? Now, what was her name, again..?"

"You ought to know," taunted Arnold. "You stole her file with her psych evals."

Scheck did not miss a beat. "Oh yes, the basket case. I still don't get why her death upsets you so much, or even at all. If anything, you should be thanking me for taking that lunatic, that mentally unstable timebomb, out of your life for good! Did you really foresee a happily ever after with Helga Pataki?"

'_Helga Pataki'_. At those final words, Arnold smiled.

"_Did you really foresee a happily ever after with Helga Pataki?"_

* * *

'_Helga Pataki'. I'll be dammed, Arnold called it!_

"**_I guarantee he'll bring her up to rub in how I failed to help her in the end," Arnold had comfortably predicted at the brownstone. "And when – not if, when – he mentions her name, that's your cue."_**

Those words were Arnie's cue to fire.

First target on the boat. _BOOM!_ Work the bolt; chamber the next round: _CHA-CHUNK!_

Second target on the furthest container. _BOOM!_ Work the bolt; chamber the next round: _CHA-CHUNK!_

Third target on the nearmost container. _BOOM!_ Work the bolt; chamber the next round: _CHA-CHUNK!_

All within three seconds. Another look through the scope.

First shooter: downed.

Second shooter: brains splattered over a wide radius; downed.

Third shooter: a cavernous hole through his back; downed.

Kill zone: confusion.

_Time for Arnold to go to work._

* * *

Three shots were fired. Many more were heard: the initial reports from an unknown shooter, then the echelon echoes off the shipping containers arranged around the area.

Scheck and the PMC's were confused. Someone yelled "_SHOOTER!_". Others looked around in disarray. Others dove to the ground. Momentarily, nobody was paying attention to Arnold.

Their mistake.

Arnold raised his carbine towards the closest combatants and let loose short sprays of 7.62mm lead.

_BRRT…BRRT…BRRT._

The first five never saw it coming as Arnold's bullets ripped through them. Three more turned to face him: abreast, weapons raised, composure regained. They in turn never saw Arnie's fourth shot as it passed through each of them, dealing instant death times three.

_BOOM!_

Arnie's fourth shot also echoed and reverberated across the area, further adding to the confusion. The confusion that Arnold exploited with more volleys.

_BRRT…BRRT…BRRT._

Three more hostiles downed with gaping holes in their chests and stomachs. Arnold began circling the hostiles gathered closest to him. Strafing them with more full-auto bursts. His constant movement prevented them from getting a bead on him. The constant adjustments of their aim made them sitting ducks as Arnold dropped them in rapid succession

_BRRT…BRRT…BRRT._

Two…no, three…no, four more dropped, Shots to head, heart and lungs.

Then…_ BRR—CLICK-CLICK-CLICK._

Shit! The magazine was empty! He had to put some distance between him and the foes, but they also heard the unmistakable sound of an enemy's weapon dry-firing.

Arnie bought him his time with a fifth and final shot which passed through another two hostiles and caused the rest to hit the deck once more as the fifth BANG reverberated through the area. It was Arnold's cue to haul ass for the labyrinthine passages amongst the containers, which fortunately were now abandoned by Scheck's men who were previously stationed on top of them and who no longer had any desire to be open targets for a fucking sharpshooter.

"He's retreating," shouted someone who sounded in charge. "_OPEN FIRE!_"

He and his comrades did, and Arnold barely made it in time to the passage to avoid the wall of automatic gunfire pursuing him. He slid in just as innumerable bullets pinged and dinged against the metal containers, some ricochets barely missing him. He now had a few seconds.

Time for him to eject the ammo drum and insert the other one.

Time for him to hear the man in charge issue a loud command to close in on the target.

Time enough to pull out a flashbang, pull the pin and praise his latent baseball pitching skills as he threw the grenade so that its trajectory saw it bounce off the side wall before clearing the exit of the passage and rolling towards the advancing party.

At that point, he heard the self-appointed leader issue a desperate "Shit! Fall back!" just as the grenade exploded with its usual cocktail of 170 dB of noise and 2.3 million candelas of luminous intensity. The desired effect was had, given the screams of agony Arnold was hearing.

Arnold briefly mused what Bridget was putting into these things as they were way more powerful than the ones he normally used. But not for long, as he rushed the incapacitated party and again administered more quick sprays toward them.

_BRRT…BRRT…BRRT. BRRT…BRRT…BRRT._

His gunfire ended with seven more downed hostiles with entry wounds in every location: head and heart, mostly. He caught sight of one struggling in vain for breath due to his sucking chest wound while another was fated to exsanguinate from a leg shot that left blood gushing out of his femoral artery.

"Arnold, behind you!" Phoebe's voice over the earpiece reminded him that the fight wasn't yet over and that someone had indeed scaled a container again for a better vantage point and was about to acquire Arnold as his target. Arnold turned in time to see the shotgun's muzzle flash and feel the slug as it struck him square on the chest.

"_Arnold!_" shrieked Phoebe over the radio, having witnessed the occurrence at Brainy's. Fortunately for Arnold, Bridget's armor had stopped the slug from penetrating. Unfortunately, his sternum had borne the brunt of the impact leaving it and him in considerable distress. But not enough to prevent him from returning fire, albeit not as accurately as his more able-bodied version. Still, his counterattack eventually found its mark: the shooter's knee, thigh, and stomach. Forward he fell, off the container while flinging his weapon in Arnold's direction. As he hit the ground, Arnold emptied his remaining few bullets into the man.

"Arnold, how are you?" asked a worried Phoebe.

"Not good, but I can keep going," he attempted to hearten her as he also moved as quickly as possible to retrieve the last man's shotgun and claim a new primary weapon. In this case, it was a Tavor TS12. _Shit, what kind of budget for weapons do these guys have?_

"Phoebe?" he was back on the radio. "I think that's it for the enemies out in the open. How many out in and amongst the containers?"

"Checking," Phoebe responded, letting her professionalism shine through now that she knew Arnold was still fine. "I count thirteen, not including Scheck. And he seems to be reading them the Riot Act. It appears that they've regrouped and are planning to converge on you."

"Phoebe, you're the best! Now guide me, please. I'm going in to meet them."

* * *

"Phoebe, before you guide my idiot cousin, can you help me out please?"

"How so, Sheriff?"

Arnie was fresh off inserting a new magazine and was pointing the rifle back at the war zone. While doing so, he kept up with the lovebirds' radio chatter and now had his own request.

"Do you have a fix on Scheck's limo? It doesn't seem to be where he left it when he arrived. Chances are Arnold just took the fight out of him and he'll want to take a powder. Live to fight another day, and all that."

"One moment," Phoebe responded, her professional tone suggesting how well she'd eased into her role.

"Found it!" She then relayed its new location, which was to aid a speedy getaway if the situation didn't go to plan. Arnie did a slow pan of the area until the vehicle appeared in his sight.

"Target acquired!" he confirmed.

"Not a moment too soon!" Phoebe responded this time with some urgency in her voice. "Scheck and two of his men are heading for the vehicle, no doubt for a fast getaway."

"I'm on it. You get back to assisting Arnold."

"Will do."

He maintained his visual on the limo, making several minor adjustments and compensations. He was targeting the guards and the vehicle itself.

"**_Don't hit Scheck, whatever you do!" Arnold had earlier insisted. "We need him to be identifiable for the plan to work!"_**

_Aye-aye, Lieutenant!_ Arnie mocked reproachfully as he waited.

Just then, Scheck arrived, no doubt to be escorted to safety under the escort of two PMC's. Arnie watched as he was bundled into the vehicle through the left passenger door with one PMC, with the other one hustling over to the driver's seat.

_Not so fast, you son of a bitch!_ Arnie sighed as he squeezed the trigger. The .50 BMG round had a longer flight path with this shot, but it reached the target vehicle having lost none of its initial punch. It struck the limo, entering through the roof. When it exited through the driver's side window, the result was akin to an exploding glitter bomb comprising several flecks of blood and multiple fragments of bone and glass. A slight pause, then the second guard exited, trying to find safety and eventually settling behind a nearby van where he made frantic motions to his boss to join him in safety. How little he knew, as Arnie squeezed off another shot that after another three-second flight, struck the crouching mercenary on the head. His head was transformed on impact into a red plume of blood and brain matter. Next, three shots for the car itself.

_BOOM!_ To the front axle, steering column, or thereabouts. The front end collapsed, signaling that the 'or thereabouts' was close enough.

_BOOM! _This one was for the engine bay. This bullet powered through the hood, and Arnie knew straight away that the engine block was done for.

_BOOM!_ Last shot, also for the engine. He was hoping that the previous shot had also ruptured the fuel line and that this one would ignite the spilled fuel. He saw the impact, then he saw a fire slowly starting in the engine bay, then a distraught Scheck exiting the vehicle and running for any location but his current one.

"_How's it feel knowing how the Sunset Arms victims must have felt, Asshole"_ Arnie shouted at full lung capacity, at once saddened and relieved that there was no-one around to hear him.

"Job's done," he whispered into his radio.

His work completed, Arnie started packing up his gear, after which he would flee the scene of a crime – that officially would never have happened – and disappear from Hillwood for good. He gathered and bagged his spent casings and was about to disassemble and pack up his weapon when he noticed that he still had a third magazine remaining.

He paused for thought while remembering Arnold's instructions back at Brainy's.

"**_And Arnie, once you've foiled Scheck's getaway, your job will be done. Pack up your gear and get the hell out of Hillwood. Go back home to Hilda and Helle."_**

His job may have been done, but the operation was not. He decided that his cousin was worth the disobedience and an extra five rounds of protection, reloaded the rifle and resumed his watch.

_Just in case, _he reckoned.

_Who knows? Arnold and Phoebe might just need extra support._

* * *

Meanwhile, Arnold was traversing the labyrinth in and amongst the containers. He was glad to have Phoebe as his backup, else this would have been a fool's errand: him meeting eleven armed combatants – eleven, now that Arnie had eliminated the two by the limo.

He was approaching a T-junction when he heard Phoebe's voice.

"Arnold!" The firmness of her whisper brought him to a standstill. "Hostile around the left corner…twenty, twenty-five feet. Weapon trained towards the junction! He's expecting you…possibly through your footfalls."

"Got it," Arnold whispered back. He then stalked toward the junction, aiming for the most acute angle possible without being spotted. Once he had attained that goal. He fired a round that ricocheted off the side of a contained around the corner. Arnold judged from the loud 'Fuck!' that the round had come close to the aggressor and caused him to jump back in surprise. In a deft display of rapid target acquisition, Arnold rounded the corner, bore the weapon on the target and fired. _Boom!_ The slug struck the target just below the sternum and down he went.

"Arnold! Two more approaching behind you!"

Arnold turned in time to see two more enemies rounding another junction further along his passage. He barely had time enough to fire two shots there way to force them back around their corners and stall them.

"Found him!" he heard the one shout. "He's here! Contact, _contact_!"

He saw that he was at a dead end, so he rushed back to the junction through which he'd entered, just in time to avoid a volley of full-auto machinegun fire. He took the time to cycle the tubes on the shotgun; the current one was fully expended.

"He's bolting! Pursue! Pursue!"

"Arnold!" called Phoebe. "They're about to round the corner!"

Hearing that bit of information caused Arnold to spin around, in time to see his pursuers come into view. _Boom! Boom! Boom!_ Two more hostiles down. He didn't have time to admire his recent handiwork; Phoebe was back in his ear. "_One from behind_!" she shouted, in time for Arnold to be made aware of an approaching hostile but a fraction too late for him to react to said hostile firing a three-round burst that caught the Footballhead in the back and dropped him to his knee. His attacker believed that his target was down and was about to announce as much, so he was taken by terminal surprise as Arnold did an unexpected 180 pivot and returned the favor with two shots – _BOOM…BOOM_ – to the leg and chest. Down he went.

Bridget's armor still seemed to be holding: no penetration yet. It hurt, but he was still mobile. Eight shells remaining for seven enemies.

From the downed man's radio, he heard a hodgepodge of increasingly desperate chatter.

"_Cates, did you get him?"_

"_Zix, come in! is he down?"_

"_Anyone got a visual?"_

"_Cates, respond!"_

"_Maitland, you there?"_

"_Zix! ZIX!"_

They appeared to be in disarray; easier to pick off. "Phoebe, where are the rest?"

"They've regrouped at the other end by the vans. They're being cautious now. They seem nervous."

Good news: they were bunched together. With luck, he could pick them off with only the remaining shotgun shells.

"Phoebe, guide me to them."

A slight hesitation, then: "Affirmative."

From there it was an efficient sequence of 'Take the next left', 'Take the next right' and "Straight ahead' statements. Soon enough, the remaining seven were in sight. They were sticking in a tight formation, moving along the periphery of the container area. They weren't going back into the maze; they were going to wait him out.

_Time to end this._

His thoughts as he exited the maze into a better firing position…and into the gaze of the rearmost guard who happened to turn his way at that exact moment.

"Contact! Six o'clock!", he shouted, which caused his comrades to turn around in response. _SHIT_, thought Arnold, as he now had no choice but to fire in blind hope.

_BOOM BOOM BOOM…_ rotate to the last tube…_BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM _in rapid succession as he sprinted for the protection of the vans. The return fire had commenced by the time he reached them, and he was almost able to avoid their bullets. _Almost_, as one struck him on the side, where the armor was at its most vulnerable. At least the armor slowed down the bullet enough so that when it penetrated, it was shallow enough not to be fatal, though still deep enough to hurt like a _MOTHERFUCKER!_

He heard a gasp from Phoebe over the radio, but now was not the time to offer reassurances. He discarded the Tavor and drew his Glock, ready to face the remnants. At least the gunfire had stopped, and they were reloading. Still, it was now fifteen rounds against, _how many was it now_? _Plus_, he also didn't know their positions relative to his.

"Arnold, four opponents remaining!" What a relief, Phoebe's priorities being in line with his! "Fanning out! One to your immediate right!"

So he was. _BANG-BANG-BANG!_ Three shots to his chest and he was down. And the firing recommenced, forcing Arnold to roll under the van behind which he was hiding. He still had time to marvel at how smoothly the Glock was firing thanks to Bridget's compensator and how he'd have to thank her for it.

"Next one, ten o'clock, twenty yards."

Arnold slithered around to find him almost exactly where Phoebe had pointed. Like his mates, he was firing at more or less chest height. _BANG!_ Arnold's first shot struck him in the tibia, which must have shattered on the impact. The impact also propelled the man's leg backward, and the resulting momentum flung him forward on his stomach. _BANG!_ Arnold's second shot found him right between the eyes and straight away he too was no longer a problem.

"Fuck this! Old Man Scheck ain't worth this shit! I'm out of here!" Arnold heard one of the last two announce his retreat, followed by the sound of him running to get the hell out of the area.

"You fucking coward!" Arnold heard the second man shout at his partner, then the sound of a three-round burst followed by that of a fleeing man dropping dead.

By the time the last man standing had loudly muttered, "Fucking pussy!", Arnold had rolled out from under the van and was positioned with the last man in his sights with his back turned. His target must have sensed Arnold's presence and realized the disadvantage of his position, even as he turned quickly in an attempt to outdraw his target.

A futile attempt, as by the time he had his weapon raised – _BANG-BANG-BANG!_ – Arnold had placed three rounds in his chest. The man expired, leaving Arnold with one last request to a relieved-sounding Phoebe: "Phoebe, can you locate—"

_BOOM!_

A heavy gunshot, then an equally heavy impact on Arnold's back. He went down, no longer requiring Phoebe to locate Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck.

* * *

Phoebe was hysterical.

"_ARNOLD!"_

In a moment of carelessness, she had given full priority to the mercenaries and forgotten about tracking Scheck. And Arnold had paid for her absentmindedness.

"_What's happening?"_ Brainy shouted as he came running into Phoebe's station.

"_Phoebe, what happened?_" It was Arnie shouting through the radio.

"It's Arnold! He's down! Scheck got him!"

"Shit!" responded Arnie. "Where! _Where_, goddammit?"

"Vans-vans…roundabout the vans' location!" Phoebe's composure was slipping at what she was witnessing on the screen.

"Arnie, if you're still in your position you have to take a shot you have to take Scheck out _NOW_!" Phoebe's words were tripping over each other as her mental state was unraveling.

"Sorry, I don't have a clear shot," apologized Arnie.

"What do you mean 'no shot'? Take the fucking shot! Take out Scheck, right fucking now!" Phoebe was being sickened by what she was witnessing. Brainy was beside her, mouth equally agape.

"I can't," repeated Arnie. "Vans obscuring the target. Might hit Arnold! "

Brief silence from Phoebe, then a deep inhale, then: "OK, Sheriff. Here's what I want you to do…"

* * *

Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a winner.

No matter how long it took, no matter _what_ it took, he always found a way to come up on top. Arnold was no exception. It had taken seventeen years, some of his freedom and most of his PMC staff, but his moment was now as he squeezed the first round from the Desert Eagle into Arnold's back.

"Never were one for the bigger picture, were you, you little prick?" he shouted as his quarry, his would-be killer, went down. His question alluded to how careless Arnold and whoever was assisting him had been in failing to notice their main adversary slink away from the limousine into the container maze, where he came across the .50 pistol from one of his downed men. He was still shaken from his failed escape bid and his head and upper body were slick and caked with blood, bone, and viscera from the soldier who would have been his getaway driver. Nonetheless, he'd been able to remain out of the way as Arnold focused on the remainder of the PMC's, only sneaking up on the footballhead to take the shot when he was certain that his and everyone else's guard was lowered.

Then he witnessed the impossible as Arnold stopped himself from a full collapse and forced himself back to his feet. _BOOM!_ He attempted to rectify the matter with a second shot which caught the footballheaded bastard on the back as well and forced him to stagger forward.

"_Impossible!_" Scheck's loud arrogance was being undermined by disbelief as the little shit refused to fall.

He watched Arnold spin to face him. _BOOM, BOOM_! Two shots to the newly presented chest sent Arnold reeling backward, though he remained standing while steadfastly holding on to his gun.

"_Why won't you fucking go down!_" Scheck's disbelief had boiled over and distilled into fear as – _BOOM!_ – he fired the fifth shot to the young man's chest. That shot finally dropped him on his back, the impact on the ground sufficient for him to drop his weapon.

_Finally!_ Scheck rejoiced internally as he walked over to Arnold. He had two bullets remaining; Arnold had none. _Time to finish this!_

"New outcome, Arnold!" Scheck spoke with newfound malevolence as he approached his gravely injured enemy with equally newfound confidence. "Remember Phoebe's parents? Your belligerence has come at a cost. Now they too will die for your folly. As soon as I'm done with you, I'm making the call."

Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a winner. He knew it, as he stood straddling over the recumbent Arnold who was groaning in pain and coughing up blood.

"Ooh! That doesn't look good, Mister Shortman! Looks like internal bleeding. Maybe a ruptured organ or two?" He continued with his merciless taunts. "Anyway, where was I? Oh right…you really don't have much luck with the ladies, do you? First Helga Pataki, now Phoebe Heyerdahl. Oh, did I mention that she'll be going the way of her parents as well?" He saw Arnold's eyes take on a death glare, one final look of defiance at which the older man scoffed. "You poor, unlucky bastard. You think that thousand-yard gaze is going to save you now?"

Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a winner. He was thinking that much as he raised the Desert Eagle to the footballheaded man. He was thinking that much as he heard three loud, metallic impacts from large-caliber bullets hitting a nearby van. Almost immediately thereafter, three loud booms – reports from that sniper bastard – echoed and reverberated through the area, causing Scheck instinctively to turn away from Arnold and scan the area in a slight panic.

_Hmph! Blind fire! Otherwise, …he'd have hit me! Oh well, I'll find him and have him killed too. They'll all die. They fucked with me, they'll all die._

Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a winner. He was thinking that much as he turned back to Arnold and witnessed the last thing he'd ever see: the muzzle flash from an implausibly obtained weapon. He futilely realized at exactly that moment that he had the smallest fraction of a second in which to appreciate the extent at which Arnold had come prepared even for tight spots like this. The last-ditch weapon: an NAA Black Widow, mounted on a spring-loaded rig strapped to Arnold's arm and covered by the sleeve of his coat. Then, as the unexpected .22 bullet pierced through his left eye and entered his brain cavity where it bore through his frontal lobe and did its terminal damage…only _then_, did Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck have all the time left in the world.

* * *

"Dammit Arnie!" he coughed, sputtered and rasped. "I told you to pack up and go home!"

"Since when did I ever listen to you?" replied his cousin. "And besides, if Hilda found out you died on my watch, I'd be better off eating one of my own bullets. How bad are you, Coz?"

"I'll live…" Arnold groaned. "The armor did its job…"

"Arnold, how are you…_really_?" Phoebe's stern voice cut through the pained banter.

"Not good," Arnold admitted without any bravado. "Back's fucked. Ribs are definitely broken. Organs ruptured, definitely internal bleeding, plus I've got a bullet lodged near the one lung."

Phoebe was aghast at these disclosures. "Arnold, you need to get yourself to an emergency room, right this second!"

"I'm on it!" Brainy interrupted. "Hang in there, Arnold! She's three minutes from your location."

_Three minutes? Not much time. _Arnold dragged himself over to the late Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck. With that accomplished, he began rummaging inside his overcoat.

"Arnold, what are you doing?" asked Phoebe in grave concern. "You shouldn't even be moving at all!"

"Saving Olga. Keeping my promise," he replied with increasingly difficult breaths. "Best you stop recording now."

Before Phoebe could protest further, he heard Brainy's voice. "Done! Now do what you have to do."

On Brainy's assurance, Arnold produced a clear plastic bag containing a pistol, a .22 High Standard HDM with a sound suppressor integrated into the barrel. The very weapon that ended the life of Detective Mark Vasquez. Arnold had disposed of the Bodyguard, Olga's shotgun and Vasquez's service pistol. He'd kept the HDM. He'd wiped it clean, down to the magazine and the remaining bullets, in the hope that a situation like his current one would present itself. Carefully, he placed the bag in the inner pocket of Scheck's coat.

"Arnold, what did you just do?" Phoebe asked suspiciously.

"Best you don't know," replied Arnold. "Best none of you know."

With that, he'd done what he could. The rest was up to how the other players would play their hands. In the distance, he heard an ambulance siren approaching.

"OK, I'm done," he heard Arnie announce. "So long, guys. And good luck."

"Thank you, Sheriff." A sincere display of gratitude from Phoebe.

"Four-Eyes, you're not that bad to work with. You ever get tired of this city, I could always use a CI like you back at the county."

"Thanks, Sheriff," returned Brainy. "And Arnold, the care package is done. I'm just waiting for the courier."

But Arnold couldn't hear him, or anyone else. He'd lapsed into unconsciousness, so he didn't hear Phoebe's and Brainy's increasingly frenzied calls for his response, nor did he hear the ambulance come to a screeching halt near him. He did not hear Sheena rush over to him and comment on what a train wreck he was, nor did he hear her chide her rookie partner to keep it together among all the dead bodies.

He did regain consciousness long enough to hear Sheena calling in the scene and advising that they send people with strong stomachs. After that, he felt like taking the longest nap he'd ever taken.

So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Similarly, the more graphic depictions of violence in this chapter were also subject to much consideration. Arnie's weapon fires a .50 BMG round, a round designed for anti-materiel as well as anti-personnel applications. So if it is designed to take down vehicles, its effect on carbon-based lifeforms is most profound. And since Arnie had to confirm his kills, I had to describe what he was seeing.
> 
> Author's Note #2: The title of this chapter is a Looney Tunes reference, specifically to the Foghorn Leghorn cartoon, 'Feather Dusted'. In this title, a character reads a book titled 'How To Isolate The Isotope'. I had barely reached double digits when I first saw it, and so I had no clue what an isotope was, only that isolating it must be a very difficult undertaking. Decades later, writing this chapter and realizing the difficulty Arnold and friends were in for made me remember that book title. Well, that and 'How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb' was already taken.
> 
> Author's Note #3: My main inspiration for the opening section of this chapter was episode 3 of Neon Genesis Evangelion, in which Shinji is learning to use his Eva's targeting system. I had Arnie repeatedly cycle through his targets, rotely building his muscle memory for when he had to take the shots, in the same detached way Shinji kept repeating "Position target in the center and pull the switch."
> 
> And finally, herewith this chapter's Spotify playlist:  
Step Up — Drowning Pool  
Centuries — Fall Out Boy  
Brothers In Arms — Junkie XL  
One Hundred Hunters — Nigel Stanford  
FEUER FREI! - RMX BY JUNKIE XL — Rammstein  
Weapons of Mass Distortion — The Crystal Method  
Firestarter — Torre Florim  
Vertigo — U2  
Run Boy Run — Woodkid  
Vengeance — Zack Hemsey


	24. Postcards from the Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Aided by his comrades, Arnold finally takes down Scheck. But has he paid the ultimate price in the process?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

_Hello Arnold. It's been two weeks and a bit but here I am. Do you have any idea how difficult a task I had tracking you down? Not so much the actual tracking part, but the complications that ensued as a result of our actions that night. You probably can't hear me, but that's fine as what I need right now is a sounding board. There's much I must say and much to unpack. I'm having a difficult time organizing my thoughts over what happened after that night in the harbor into anything resembling a coherent sequence, so my recollection may be all over the place and for that, I apologize in advance._

_But I will start with this. Unfortunately, there's no way to break this news to you while maintaining any sense of suspense, but…you did it. You did it! Scheck is no more. FTI is all but gone. Olga is safe. And that's just the tip of the iceberg! But as always, I must start at the beginning, with Sheena…_

* * *

It had been at least an hour since she arrived, and now she was kneeling over a very vulnerable Arnold. Sheena had done all she could to stabilize her fallen comrade, but his injuries were too severe for him to stay out here. He needed to get to an ER as quickly as possible if he was to stand even a fighting chance of survival. All the big shots were at this scene, even the Commissioner who was moving from tech to tech, officer to officer, feverishly talking to everyone. She never heard what he was saying, asking or ordering, but his body language hinted more toward damage control than solving a case. Then the reality hit Sheena: the police were trying to delay Arnold's release from the scene. She had a suspicion…that if Arnold were to die, then Hillwood PD would somehow breathe more easily.

Then the others arrived.

They arrived in a procession of SUVs, an eighteen-wheeler, even a chopper. The SUV's had flashing blue lights, with sirens at full wail. In and among the fleet was a white Crown Vic that Sheena recognized. The vehicles all came to a halt and the chopper landed a short distance from them. She watched as the man called Mister Smith exited the Crown Vic and how several soldiers and officials took it as their cue to exit their own vehicles, except for the chopper pilots.

The armed soldiers congregated around Mister Smith, who then issued orders to them, perhaps to secure the area, set up a perimeter…same as what she'd overhear site commanders issue at the numerous crime scenes she'd worked. The soldiers dispersed, except for three who accompanied Mister Smith to meet with the Commissioner. Again, it wasn't clear to her what was being spoken, but in short order, the elderly man had the Commissioner shrinking and quivering in front of him. The senior police official then reluctantly pointed towards her and Arnold, whereupon the man called Smith signaled something to his three men. The armed men then approached Sheena and her patient.

"I don't know who you are, and I don't care!" Sheena growled at the approaching armed military men, her voice loud and shrill from worry over Arnold's survival. "But this man needs urgent medical attention _right this moment!_"

The three men stopped in front of her and her charge. The one in the center was probably in his late forties, clean cut with greying temples, and cut a very stately figure. The men flanking him looked about Arnold's age and just as battle-hardened. Mere moments after their standstill, all three saluted Sheena, much to her confusion.

"Ma'am," began the elder man, "I'm Major Knowles, these are Sergeants Gomez and MacPherson. On behalf of Unit 42, consider us in your debt for ensuring the survival of Lieutenant Arnold Shortman."

"L-L-…Lieutenant..?" Sheena began her questioning, only to be firmly and politely cut off.

"Ma'am, we understand and appreciate that your patient needs urgent medical attention. Our mutual acquaintance, Mister Smith, has arranged for us to transport Lieutenant Shortman to one of our medical facilities where he'll be in the most capable hands."

Direct and straight to the point, with no threat or menace in his voice. Still…she looked past the Major toward Mister Smith, who simply nodded back at her when their gazes met. Clearly, he knew what questions her gaze was asking, and his stern, authoritative nod answered all of them. Smith's assurance was all that she needed, so she let the men take Arnold to the chopper. She helped them carry him to and load him into the craft. She then watched as it took off and took flight, but not before seeing the soldiers turn to her and offer one more salute each.

* * *

_I suppose that even for you, Arnold, no good deed goes unpunished. I later uncovered that Hillwood PD was under instruction from Big Gino not to harm you or me in any way, nor any of our associates. But I think…well, that they thought they'd stumbled on a loophole. Let you die as a result of injuries and events not initiated by them, then say sorry, not our fault. A loose end eliminated._

_Arnie is safe, by the way. It turns out the distance from which he fired aided him immensely in his escape. He was able to avoid any traffic cameras by using the back roads. Plus, he collected all his bullet casings, so that if an investigator were to stumble upon his nest, at best they'd have a very difficult time proving that a sniper had even used it as a nest. However…_

* * *

The flashing lights of the cruiser loomed in his rearview mirror after he was pulled over. He watched as the Hillwood PD officer approached his window.

"Good evening officer. Any way I can help you?"

"License and registration please, Sir."

To which Arnie complied. The officer studied the documents and returned them. Arnie thought he was in the clear, then…

"Sir, if you don't mind me saying, you look awfully familiar."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," Arnie played along. "Like some TV star's stunt double or something. Do you believe that?"

The patrolman was in no mood for jest; who would be while on a late night/early morning patrol?

"Awfully late to be out on the road. Where you headed, sir."

"Came to visit a friend. Visit lasted longer than expected, now I gotta get back home in the boonies in time for work. No booze involved, Officer. Not a single drop."

He watched as the officer mulled over his answers. Mulled over them a bit too long for comfort, then resumed the conversation.

"Sir, the reason I stopped you is that a call came in about an incident at the harbor not even half an hour ago. One that as it happens, requires all patrol officers to stop and check any and all vehicles seen on the road within the immediate vicinity."

_Oh shit!_ The medic had called in the scene and HPD's response had been swift. Just his luck he had remained in the nest, keeping Arnold in his sights right until the moment the paramedics arrived and went to work on him.

"And seeing as we are well within twenty miles of the scene, I'm sure you'd understand my suspicions at your answer. In fact, I'm sure you'd understand why I'd like you to step out of the vehicle."

_This guy's sharp!_ Arnie was more impressed by this patrolman's smooth communication skills than he was worried about his own impending arrest.

"But before I ask you to do that, I have one more question. Arnold Shortman. Do you know him?"

Oh, what the hell. "Yep! He's my cousin."

"And would you consider yourself…associates?"

OK, something was going on! He should have been ordered out of the vehicle by now. _What's this guy's deal? Is he trying to cut me a break?_

"Kinda," Arnie answered cautiously. "He's a bounty hunter, I'm law enforcement. Same county. We sometimes help each other with collaring bail jumpers."

He then watched as the officer exchanged a knowing glance with his partner, before looking back at him. "Well, that concludes our discussion. Thank you so much for assisting the Hillwood Police Department higher-ups in such a profound way. They'll be sleeping more easily, all thanks to you! "

_Huh?_

"You be sure to drive safely now, sir! Good night!"

Arnie drove off in relief, befuddlement, and suspicion. Why were they letting him go so easily? Why was knowing Arnold such a key factor? On he drove, irked yet also relieved by not knowing just what the hell the full story was. However, the further away from Hillwood he drove, the more he started believing that ignorance might be bliss. He did, however, seek assurances from whatever deity happened to be on the air that night that his favorite cousin and his best friend would survive his injuries.

He also allowed himself the luxury of shedding a tear.

**xxXXXxx**

"Torvald, you are such a jackass!" his partner berated as they were driving after letting the man called Arnie go along his way. "We ran the plates! We _knew_ who he was! You said so yourself that he was Shortman's cousin! Was all of that necessary?"

"Didn't mean we couldn't have some fun with him! Make him sweat a little and _earn_ his free pass," Torvald was unapologetic. "Besides, Maryam, don't pretend that you didn't enjoy watching him squirm a bit."

"Hardly! That guy had the best poker face I've ever seen! He hardly flinched!"

"Anyway," Torvald turned to his partner, "our shift's almost over. What say we get breakfast when we're done?"

"You read my mind, Torvald," his partner replied in anticipation as she paused to adjust her hijab. "You read my mind."

* * *

_So it turns out that Big Gino's protection extended to our 'known associates' as well. And by confirming that he knew you, Arnie earned his ticket away from suspicion and prosecution. Anyway, he's back at home with Hilda and Helle, happy to hear that you're safe and on the mend. I asked him what happened to his weapon, and the only answer I received was a very vague and enigmatic 'it's somewhere safe and secure'. I do trust his judgment, however, and so have pursued the matter no further. But I must confess to being intrigued by the patrol officer. Going by Arnie's account, I suspected a sense of familiarity with which he asked his questions. Arnie described him as about your age, maybe a year or two older. Someone you helped at PS118, perhaps? Someone else besides me, Brainy and now Sheena who didn't vilify you after the tragedy?_

_The answer may forever elude us._

_Anyway, I'm allowing myself to get distracted when I need to remain focussed. You definitely will want to hear of Olga's fate…_

* * *

"You have nothing!"

"Miss Vail, Your client's hands tested positive for GSR," the interrogating detective smugly announced.

"Which only proves that she fired _a_ weapon. Look, she belongs to a gun club. Given time, I'll be able to pull any amount of footage of her firing away at their firing range."

They were roughly two hours into the interrogation at Hillwood PD's main precinct, seated in what was euphemistically called an 'Interview Room' because, apparently, 'Interview' didn't sound as foreboding, intimidating nor unwelcoming as 'Interrogation'. But Lana Vail wasn't buying the rebranding: it was an interrogation room in every detail, from the wobbly chair provided to her client, to the broken AC, that _one_ flickering light, and the lack of a clock. Lana Vail had informed her client, Olga Pataki-Vasquez, of these and other tactics geared towards making it easier for them to elicit confessions from suspects. With that said, she'd also advised her client to remain silent and let her do the talking. That was roughly four hours ago when Olga had called her on the number provided by Arnold and explained that Brainy had recommended her. That last bit of info was enough for her to kick her latest, barely legal, boy toy out of bed and hastily prepare for the meeting that was currently underway.

"But then why was she in hiding, Miss Vail?" The detective's smug look prevailed as he continued with his questioning. "Experience dictates that killers are loathe to remain at the scene of the murder."

"What scene? Her house? And I suppose you found her fingerprints and DNA at the scene? Where she also happens to _live_? Shocker!" She emphasized her point with an imitation of Edvard Munch's _The Scream_.

"There were definite signs of a physical altercation, and a particularly violent one at that."

"Detective," sighed Lana, "My client is wearing the same light summer dress she's been wearing since yesterday morning, and it bears no evidence of any violent activity." She then instructed Olga: "Olga, would you be so kind as to place your arms flat on the table, please?"

Olga did as instructed.

Lana Vail turned back to their interrogator. "Detective, kindly point out all the defensive wounds you can find. Take your time, _please_."

Silence. Nervous coughing.

"No bruised knuckles. No cuts, no scrapes. No suggestion of so much as a punch having been thrown."

"Be that as it may, the victim was repeatedly shot. The coroner fished nine bullets out of his body. Sounds personal, don't you think? It sounds like a crime of passion. Right, Olga? What happened? You found out your husband was cheating on you and then—"

"Hey!" Lana cut him off. "Suspect has invoked right to counsel – _me_. One more stunt like that and we're done! And as for Detective Vasquez's fatal shooting…where's the murder weapon? Your report states that no such weapon was recovered, let alone any spent casings."

"Very well, Miss Vail," the detective appeared to concede. "But the fact remains that we can't account for your client's whereabouts around the time of the murder. Perhaps if she could enlighten us?"

Lana Vail remained unfazed by the question. "Detective, assume hypothetically that she uncovers evidence that her husband is not a shining example of blue virtue. Assume furthermore, that she discovers that said husband has been lying to her about late-night assignments when he is, in fact, doing the bidding of a suspected Russian mobster."

She watched as the detective went silent and began breathing in uncomfortable swallows. But she had to turn the screws even more.

"Lastly, and again just for the sake of hypothesis, assume that when she sees him snafu a press conference, she concludes that his usefulness with whoever he's in league with has come to an end and that his life is now at risk. And hers too by extension. Do you really think she'd have any reason to leave any trails to her whereabouts, given that she now suspects that _all_ of Hillwood PD is on the take?"

"This…hypothetical situation," the detective gulped while trying to maintain composure, "does it perhaps come with any corroboration?"

"Why, Detective!" Lana responded in an arch manner that she could see was upsetting the would-be closer of this case. "So thoughtful of you to ask!"

She reached into her handbag to produce a flash drive which she placed on the table. She also watched how the detective went pale in anticipation. "And what is that?" he asked. Very, very fearfully.

"A selection of bank records pertaining to Vitaly Santalov and Detective Mark Vasquez," Lana coolly explained. "Regular payments made by the former to the latter, dating back quite some time. I'm not saying my client knew about the payments, but this by itself certainly lends credence to her fears. Don't you think so, Detective?"

"Where…_how_…did you get that information?" The detective's smug veneer was no more, having been replaced by panic.

"Tell you what, Detective," Lana Vail was about to bet the farm on this gambit. "Charge my client, then arraign her. _Then_ at the trial, I'll introduce this as evidence and answer any question you care to ask. Of course…I can't vouch for what it will do for the reputation of your late star detective. All the collars he made. All the confessions he secured. All the cases he closed. All those perps he sent to prison. All those appeals you'll be facing. Bye-bye, Hillwood PD's reputation."

The detective was now a pallid, dry-mouthed husk.

"Or, you could stick with your initial – highly plausible and probably true – conclusion that this was a Russian hit in retaliation for Santalov, suspects unknown, whereabouts unknown. The evidence you've collected certainly supports that scenario. Your call."

Suddenly a knock on the door summoned the detective outside. "One moment please," he hastily excused himself and just as hastily exited.

"Lana, what's happening?" Olga spoke her first words.

"You're a free woman, _that's_ what's happening."

Indeed when the detective returned accompanied by his captain, he had the following to say: "Mrs. Pataki-Valdez, we've been made aware of new evidence pertaining to your husband's murder. The evidence exculpates you in any and all involvement. You are free to go with our profound apologies and our deepest and sincerest condolences."

Upon hearing those words, Olga felt her legs, her shoulders, her head – fuck it, her entire world – lighten as a result of the overwhelming relief.

Her attorney was more blasé, not eager to share her client's relief. "_Told_ you," was all she said.

**xxXXXxx**

It was only when they exited the precinct that Olga actually took the time to look at and properly examine Lana Vail – who lit up a cigarette the instant it was legal for her to do so. Approximately in her late forties, Lana Vail was of a slight build with an elegant hourglass figure and well-proportioned breasts. She had a long, narrow face with striking if somewhat tired-looking eyes and her unkempt, dulled-with-age brown hair somehow added to her appeal. She had an aura of faded beauty about her, but that too somehow added an irresistibly cynical quality to her.

"What?" Lana asked when she noticed the scrutiny.

"Uh, thank you? You did such good work today, and you never even knew of me before I called. It's like you were on standby just for me."

"I didn't do it for you, kid," replied Lana. "I did it for Brainy."

"Brainy?"

"Did I stutter? Yes, him!"

"Forgive my curiosity…and I mean no disrespect…but," Olga asked with a tentative voice, "why _you_? I mean, your conduct inside, the way you made sushi out of that detective. How come you're not a partner in some prestigious firm."

"I was once," admitted the older woman.

"So what happened?" Olga persisted. "Hey, it's the dead hours and our rides are still some time away."

Lana took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaled, then explained. "People have their vices, even lawyers, believe it or not. Some drink. Some do coke or weed. Me, I'm into young men. Young, but still old enough to legally consent. Only, that's not how the Ethics Committee saw it ten years ago. Some bitter prosecutor tipped them off about my proclivities. I had to prove the boys were all eighteen or nineteen, and that they all consented. In the end, the law's the law and it prevailed. The committee cleared me of any wrongdoing, but my reputation was shot to shit and I was down to chasing ambulances."

"From the penthouse to the gutter, huh?" Olga added. "Been there, done that!"

"Yeah, something like that," Lana used the interruption to take another drag. Then: "Anyway, a couple of years later, a case comes my way. Some schmuck's on the hook for murdering his three kids; stabbing them to death. Not exactly a model citizen. Heavy drinker, chronic skirt chaser, heavy gambler. _Plus_, Prosecution says they've got an airtight case with blood, DNA and strong circumstantial evidence."

She turned to Olga to find the blonde woman in wide-eyed anticipation. She smiled slightly as she continued. "Anyway, the guy's Legal Aid lawyer seems way in over her head and wants to plead him out. I step in and take his case because…why not? Poke some nice big holes in the Prosecution's case, get him acquitted. Turns out it was the wife and mother-in-law who killed the kids. Wife wanted to leave him, mother helped her stab the kids dead, then plant the bloody knife on him while he was passed-out drunk in the house. Sort of like a final 'fuck you' to the bastard."

"Oh wow!" Olga exclaimed in fascination.

"So yeah, my reputation was back on the up-and-up. I only later find out this man called Brainy was following the case. He believed the guy was innocent and sent me the file with a note. 'How about a second chance?' it read. I still have the note framed on the wall at my office."

"So you've turned things around, have you?"

"Well, I'm not earning nearly what I used to, but at least the work is steady and I'm not exactly hurting financially. And every so often I get a case from Brainy and I drop everything to handle it pro bono because it always involves giving someone a second chance."

"Like he gave you?"

"And you too. He must have thought you deserved one."

They'd have continued the conversation had both their lifts not arrived at the same time. They said their goodbyes and off they went on their separate ways.

* * *

_To hear Olga talk, she must have rushed straight back home to Miriam and they must have been overjoyed. Yes, we've started talking again despite our past. Nothing profound, but at least no firearms are involved anymore. I doubt we'll ever be best friends but at least the mood between us has become much more civil._

_And in a long, convoluted way, she's in for quite the pay-out. It started with your friend and Brainy's, Mister Smith. How come neither of you told me before that he works for a federal counter-terrorism agency? He's a more powerful figure than that Crown Vic he gets driven in may suggest! He has access to so many other agencies and departments: FBI, NSA, Treasury, NASA, and the list continues all the way to a detachment of Army Rangers that he has on permanent standby. Your old unit, Arnold: Unit 42. Apparently, after Asmara, the unit was seconded to Mr. Smith's agency as a means to avoid further scandal._

_Alas, while he wasn't in Scheck's pocket, his bosses were, and so were their bosses. Anyway, Brainy kept me in the loop on what happened after the harbor shootout. While we were in the brownstone watching the events unfold, Mister Smith was doing exactly the same in his office. As soon as you took care of Scheck, his hands were untied, and he mobilized his resources._

_They secured and processed the scene, superseding HPD's jurisdiction. They even came across a certain .22 pistol – wiped clean of any fingerprints, surprise surprise – on Scheck's person, which they were able to identify as the weapon that killed Mark. They may not have had any spent casings to compare, but they did get a metallurgical match between the remaining bullets in the magazine and those recovered from Mark's body._

_After that, the pieces just seemed to fall into place._

_The late Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was implicated as the mastermind behind Mark's murder. And since neither of them could refute any of the claims, no trial was had and HPD could spin whatever story they wanted. They spun the tale of how the evidence overwhelmingly pointed at Scheck running a crime organization using FTI as a legal front. How he came to power by aligning with Russian mobster, Vitaly Santalov. How he used his power to wrest control of Hillwood, beginning with the Sunset Arms incident. Then there was the tale of hotshot detective Mark Vasquez who was pursuing Scheck's organization, an endeavor that led to his assassination._

_You're in the tale as well, Arnold. They mentioned how Scheck had been targeting you for revenge after you sent him to jail all those years back. They mentioned how you repelled all the attempts on your life from Monday to Thursday. They mentioned how Scheck thought it would be a good idea to frame you for Mark's murder by planting the weapon on you after you were dead. They went to great lengths to stress that you acted in justifiable, appropriate self-defense and that the DA won't be pursuing criminal charges against you._

_Back to Mark…He received a highly publicized hero's funeral, alongside Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater. Two exemplary policemen who offered their lives in pursuit of justice. Two glowing obituaries and one emotional press conference, and Hillwood PD redeemed itself in the public eye. I still feel rather dirty for having written Mark's obituary…but needs must._

_Olga couldn't care less about her husband's fate, but she made a perfunctory appearance as the grieving widow for that extra emotional oomph. Let me tell you, she put her acting skills to exemplary use that day. Thankfully she's in line to receive Mark's full pension benefits, and Brainy was able to get your friend Foutley – they seem to be friends now – to obtain access for her to Mark's offshore account. Seven figures, Arnold. Seven! Tax-free! It's safe to say she's comfortably back on her feet._

_Then we must touch on Big Gino…_

* * *

The moment was _now_, he could feel it! He could feel it even before his home phone rang.

"What?" he responded, maintaining his gruff voice.

"Are you sure?" he queried the answer he had received.

"If you're fucking making any of this up...!"

The voice insisted that it wasn't.

Gino Giovinazzo had been waiting for this call ever since Arnold's visit. It was all he could do to contain his glee when he dialed a number on his mobile (one of several burners he owned). Upon pickup, his instructions were concise: "Myron! Office! Twenty minutes!"

Big Gino was at the office in eighteen minutes, only to find that Myron had already been there for ten and had an espresso and biscotti waiting for his boss.

"Good morning, Sir," spoke the articulate man-mountain. "Am I to assume that we will be conducting a business transaction?"

"You assume correctly, Myron," Big Gino replied before downing the espresso and taking a nibble of the biscotti. "You can start by gathering all the stakeholders."

"But Sir, it's half past four in the morning," Myron pointed out. "How do you know they're even awake?"

"Myron, not only are they awake, but they are shitting bricks right this moment. Just trust me and make the call!"

Soon enough, a conference call had been set up with the Commissioner, Mayor, and Governor.

"Gentlemen," began Gino, "word has reliably reached me that the State of Washington, will soon be coming into possession of a number seized assets comprising mostly properties in and around the City of Hillwood."

"You mean the assets belonging to the deceased Alphonse Scheck?" one voice nervously queried.

"Now, who said anything about their owner or his current condition?" Gino responded. "That matter is irrelevant for the sake of this proposed transaction. For that's what we're conducting: a business transaction. Anybody who doesn't agree?"

Silence.

"Glad to hear that we're all in agreement! Now, my terms! Myron?"

Myron proceeded to reveal a list of properties previously owned by Scheck that Big Gino was eying to purchase once they'd have been forfeited to the City of Hillwood. They were all located in Big Gino's childhood neighborhood, where he had terrorized the PS 118 kids but would now sell his soul to have them back. Sure, they were never what he'd call friends, but they were the heart and soul of the neighborhood: they gave it its distinctive character and vibrancy that it was now missing and that he now wished to restore.

_The devil doing the work of angels_, he silently reflected.

Gino tuned back into the negotiations once Myron was done, in time to hear a voice over the speaker: "I'm certain we can expedite your acquisition of those properties."

"Excellent! Now let's discuss the payment terms. I wish to explain that my offer for all the properties factors in asset depreciation. I won't bore you with what assumptions I made in determining the depreciation, nor with the method itself. I will merely present you with a figure, which you three will accept. Lest we forget, all three of you have pledged collateral on this transaction, collateral that I'm sure you all received very recently."

He was referring to the incriminating evidence that he had sent all of his participants on the day Vasquez was murdered. He was gladdened that all three had remembered. He then named his price, which they gladly and unanimously accepted.

"Thank you, gentlemen," he concluded. "My aide will be your facilitator for these transactions. Be sure to stay in touch. And have a nice day."

While thinking in the back of his head: _Fuck you, you bunch of fucking Judases!_

* * *

_So the consequences of that night at the harbor were far-reaching. Not even FTI was spared this time. The harbor shooting was egregious enough to warrant federal involvement – thanks again to Mister Smith – and was quickly deemed an act of domestic terrorism. Naturally, a federal investigation was conducted which pointed to one Alphonse Scheck being the financier and co-ordinator of that particular activity. Guess what? They expanded the investigation and uncovered evidence of his involvement in the Sunset Arms incident. Their evidence? Emails stored on FTI's mail servers! I knew Scheck was brazen, but…wow!_

_So they dug deeper to find – you guessed it! – the suppressed piece of evidence proving that the blast was not an accident. The FBI's forensic experts were called in to reopen the investigation. Their conclusion was exactly the same as yours, regarding the use of thermate (See, I got it right this time!). I won't lie, Arnold, I covered this story with much malicious glee._

_Believe you me, justice was swift! Brainy tells me that Mister Smith chose to pin this matter only on Scheck. Going after the political higher-ups who assisted him could last years, so they've been spared…for now. They all know they've been implicated, and they'll all be treading carefully for the rest of their lives. Meanwhile, I've been leaking snippets of evidence suggesting their involvement in domestic terrorism on Reddit. I'll admit only to you the joy I've experienced in watching voters lambaste their representatives online. I think one of those implicated resigned, while two more were harassed into committing suicide. As I said, I felt not one iota of sympathy. I've spared those from the state of Washington, however, as I feel that Big Gino may have some use for them._

_As for FTI? Welcome to the world where public opinion rules. Word of its involvement in Scheck's criminal enterprise traveled very quickly and before any subpoenas could be issued, the share price plummeted. FTI lost ninety percent of its stock in just over a week on the back of a public outcry. Bankruptcy is a foregone conclusion at this point, as the entire board resigned. Again, you may ask if I feel anything for those who've lost their jobs, to which I only say that they made their decisions and now must take the consequences. Maybe it makes me a horrible person, then so be it._

_But I know I'm not the only one rejoicing. Big Gino appears to have gone on a buying spree. Local financial publications and sites have noted how several properties once belonging to FTI have steadily been bought up by an anonymous person or entity. They all appear to be concentrated in one particular neighborhood: our old neighborhood._

_There have also been unconfirmed whisperings and murmurings about the neighborhood being converted back to the low-cost housing area it originally was, only with improved facilities. If – and this is a big 'if' – this is the work of Big Gino, then kudos to him for wanting to make the neighborhood as cosmopolitan, diverse and accessible as we remember it. It probably will never be the same, at least not overnight and certainly not for us and our generation. But who knows? Maybe future generations will reclaim the character that was lost seventeen years ago. We can only hope._

_Anyway, you may be wondering why I'm only here after just over two weeks (It appears I haven't missed much, but that's beside the point…). Anyway, my delay has little to do with how long I took to deduce your location, and more to do with Sheena and her concern for my wellbeing._

* * *

Sheena arrived shaking at the brownstone, to a firm, comforting hug from Brainy the instant she walked through the door.

"Brainy," she said softly between spasmodic breaths, "what happened out there? It was like a war zone. Some vics had their heads blown off, others had these huge cavities through their chests! What were you involved in? Then there were these men with guns coming at me and I didn't know whether or not they—"

"Sheena," Brainy responded in as soft a voice. "It's OK. It's OK. You're not part of any of this, you're not in any trouble. I've seen to it myself, I promise." He continued his embrace as he stroked her hair, pressed his head against hers, anything to remain as close to her as possible. Eventually, he suggested: "You must be exhausted. Wanna crash in the spare bedroom?"

"What about you?" she countered. "You must be exhausted too, you know."

"Sorry, I'm still monitoring the situation. Just in case…you know, damage control." He felt and heard her disappointment in her embrace and breathing, but what could he do? "Just get some rest, please. You need it more than I do. You _deserve_ it more than I do."

"Brainy, is that your paramedic friend you're talking to?" Phoebe called as she entered the lounge. Sheena and Brainy released themselves from one another upon the journalist's entrance and turned to face her. Phoebe then was stopped in her tracks upon seeing the identity of Brainy's mystery friend.

"Sh-…Sheena?" Phoebe cried in sudden recognition.

"Phoebe Heyerdahl?" Sheena cried back.

Phoebe, before this moment, had been studying maps of both Hillwood and the greater Washington state for possible medical facilities to where Arnold could have been taken. And here was a possible lead, dropped right into her lap!

"You're the paramedic friend from the harbor? Oh, thank god!" She began a round of breathless rambling. "Where's Arnold? Where did you take him? Did you see where he was taken?..." Where, when, how and why, as her questions segued into each other to form an incoherent jumble.

While Phoebe's lack of proper decorum was defined by emotion, Sheena's was marked by cold, shocked professionalism.

"Phoebe, your head! What happened?"

Her Hippocratic instincts kicked in, overriding her exhaustion as she moved to examine Phoebe's still-somewhat-swollen head. She noted the stitched laceration on her left temple, bruising on her one eye, and also her swollen left cheek.

"How did this happen?" she asked in a stern, expert tone that would suffer no lies.

Phoebe instantly picked up on her tone but instead of replying, she looked to Brainy. Brainy simply nodded and said: "It's OK. You can tell her."

Phoebe tried her best to downplay her fight with Mark Vasquez and the injuries she sustained. Sheena believed not a single word, and within an hour she and Phoebe were seated in a doctor's office inside Drymon Clinic.

"Martial arts training, you say?" the doctor repeated the reason Phoebe had given for her injuries.

"What can I say? I always had trouble keeping my guard up…" Phoebe tried sounding coy as she kept selling her lie.

"Miss Heyerdahl," the doctor spoke. "I daresay that a wise martial artist would have learned that lesson after the first blow. Anyway, I must commend whoever dressed your wound on a sterling job. But your friend here is correct: you may have a concussion and so we must administer a baseline test.

It took some prodding from Sheena for Phoebe to agree to the test. The results pointed to a definite concussion.

"Miss Heyerdahl," the doctor concluded. "The test shows the onset of a concussion concentrated on your left frontal lobe in particular. I can prescribe some painkillers for you and plenty of rest for the next week."

"But Doctor Singh," Phoebe protested, "I have some tasks at work that I need to handle with utmost urgency! I can't just take off—"

"Yes, she can!" Sheena cut her off. "It's a miracle she's made it this far in her condition." Then an idea flashed through her mind. "Say, Doctor. Given her current state, wouldn't it be a good idea to keep her for observation? Maybe do some blood work to confirm the concussion's severity, and also check for organ damage and other internal injuries."

The doctor smiled at Phoebe. "Miss Heyerdahl, I hope you realize how lucky you are to have such a caring friend. Those are all excellent suggestions. I'm scheduling you for a week of observation, we'll run some tests on your blood. I'd also like a better idea of your medical history. I'm particularly interested in any prior head injuries you've incurred."

Phoebe Heyerdahl turned to Sheena with the dirtiest look she could muster, only for the medic's expression to suggest that she'd squared off against much worse and that the injured woman was wasting her efforts.

* * *

_So there you go, Arnold. Medically indisposed, just like you currently are. It wasn't a complete waste of time. Sheena and Brainy visited me daily, keeping me abreast of the aftermath. Based on what Sheena told me about that night – the most important facet being the direction in which your helicopter took off – I was able to pinpoint your whereabouts. Gaining access to your ward, that's another story._

_While I was still a patient, I also took the opportunity to contact my parents in Hawaii. They were at my bedside within forty-eight hours. You may not consider it my wisest decision, but I told them everything about our adventures after our forced reunion. You may be fearing the worst, but if anything they are even more eager to meet you now. You've saved their daughter's life again. You were instrumental in saving their lives as well. I hope you don't mind, but they're currently looking after your place in the country, waiting for us. Take your time recovering. Remember, they're retirees living comfortably so they have all the time in the world._

_There's still some more to say, but I'll want you to be awake to hear those bits of news directly from me. In the meantime, sleep well and get well soon._

_And remember this: I love you, Arnold Shortman._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: My biggest challenge here was giving a detailed account of what happened after the events of the previous chapter, without boring you or slowing the pace to a crawl. As you've realized, my solution was to skip forward and tell it in flashback from the viewpoint of someone who sounds pressed for time. Remember, it's all in the framing. Let me know whether or not you feel I succeeded with the method.
> 
> Author's Note #2: Pop quiz. Where have you encountered the characters Knowles, Gomez, and MacPherson? A major theme with this chapter was bringing events full circle, and these characters form part of that theme.
> 
> Author's Note #3: Lana Vail was a joy to write! Watching the series, I always imagined her as a highly competent lawyer who hadn't yet gotten her big break. Hence her living at the Sunset Arms. Then when she did, her increased income meant she could move out. And you'll be correct to think I am somewhat enamored by her, judging by my description of her.
> 
> Author's Note #4: Gino and Myron were two more characters with whom I had much fun. Gino especially appealed to me not as a villain, but as an antihero. The sad thing is that he seems fully aware of his situation as an evil person genuinely wanting to uplift his neighborhood.
> 
> And here's the Spotify list that influenced this chapter, with help from Youtube since Gil Scott-Heron is under-represented on Spotify:  
Veteran of the Psychic Wars – Blue Oyster Cult  
Calling Elvis – Dire Straits  
Angola Louisiana – Gil Scott-Heron  
Kansas City Milkman – Level 42  
This Used To Be My Playground – Madonna  
That Voice Again — Peter Gabriel  
Terminal Frost —Pink Floyd  
Innuendo —Queen  
Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own —U2  
Shake Your Head (Let's Go To Bed) —Was (Not Was)


	25. They Say That Time Is A Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: At an unknown location, Phoebe explains the aftermath of the harbor shootout to an unconscious Arnold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

Half an hour ago, Phoebe Heyerdahl was seated in the office of one Major Jonathan Knowles. Three days before that, she had been discharged from the Drymon after a one-week stay became two weeks, during which she was able to pinpoint Arnold's whereabouts thanks to what Sheena could remember about the direction in which the helicopter flew away.

The location was a military base some distance north-east of Hillwood. The base housed Unit 42, Arnold's old unit that was now part of Mister Smith's agency. No doubt the base would offer the medical facilities Arnold required that night, far and away from prying journalists like Phoebe Heyerdahl.

Be that as it may, her press credentials granted her access into the base more easily than she had expected. Too easily, almost. From the gate, she was escorted to the Base Commander's office where she found him seated and flanked by another officer. Major Jonathan Knowles was every bit the man whom Sheena had described, stately and forthright: truly an officer and a gentleman.

"Firstly, Miss Heyerdahl, I feel I need to congratulate you for seeing through our ruse. You know of course that we felt moving Lieutenant Shortman to our medical facility was the most prudent move. Officially…"

"Yes," Phoebe interrupted. "Officially he is recovering at an undisclosed out-of-state facility owing to concerns for his safety and wellbeing."

"Very good, Miss Heyerdahl. Now I must ask what the nature of your visit is." Oh, he was as good as Sheena pointed out. Stern, but non-threatening.

To which Phoebe flashed her press card and proclaimed, "Major, I believe the lieutenant has a story to tell of the recent events that I'm sure will be of great public interest." That was bullshit; she'd say anything to be with Arnold.

"Miss Heyerdahl, I very much doubt the veracity of that statement. Lieutenant Shortman always kept to himself. He never openly boasted about his feats. Despite his achievements in combat, he always felt the successful result was its own reward. You'll have a difficult time getting him to open up, if not an impossible one." Again, dismissive but never disrespectful.

"But consider this, Major. The public may be aware that he was a target of someone who very recently was classified as a domestic terrorist. Certainly, they are already formulating opinions about what he might have done to incur the wrath of such a person. And not all of it may be flattering." She was clutching at straws and she knew it. And the major seemed to see right through her.

"Miss Heyerdahl, let me tell you this. At least twenty men and women stationed on this base owe their lives to Lieutenant Shortman, myself included. And when a fellow soldier rescues you while under machine-gun fire, or carries you through a hot LZ after you've been gut-shot, or even provides covering fire for you to escape an enemy ambush…well, you tend not to care about what the press or the public thinks about him."

This man's oration skills far surpassed hers, but she still had to try…

"Furthermore, Miss Heyerdahl, allow me to be blunt for a moment. I do believe that your press credentials are authentic. I do not, however, believe that you are here in that capacity. I believe you are here under false pretenses and that your motivations are more personal than professional."

Phoebe sighed heavily upon realizing that the game was up. The Major was no fool. He'd seen through her and had been merely playing along. But maybe…

"Major, you are correct. I confess that I have been trying to deceive you. I'm not here, in fact, to visit Lieutenant Shortman."

"Oh?" Major Jonathan Knowles made a show of his interest being piqued.

"I'm here to visit Arnold," Phoebe clarified plainly.

The major showed no emotion as he studied Phoebe and ruminated on her answer. He then turned to the soldier standing beside him. "Corporal Telford. Please escort Miss Heyerdahl to Lieutenant Shortman's ward. Allow her all the time she needs. Understood?"

"Sir, yes Sir!" the corporal replied before escorting Phoebe out of the office, leaving Major Jonathan Knowles to reflect on just how lucky Lieutenant Shortman was to have someone love him enough to go through hell for him.

**xxXXXxx**

Phoebe was escorted to and left in private in Arnold's ward where she found him asleep, still recovering. His chart showed that he was admitted with a punctured lung, a ruptured spleen, cracked sternum, and severe internal bleeding. Fortunately, his spine had emerged with no permanent damage. He had required multiple operations, all of which had been successful. Right now, he was resting and…aw, he looked so at peace that she didn't have the heart to wake him.

So instead…

"_Hello Arnold. It's been two weeks and a bit but here I am. Do you have any idea how difficult a task I had tracking you down?..."_

* * *

This wasn't his bedroom. This wasn't his bed. Yet here he was. Brainy seated himself to look over the edge and – oh yeah – those were definitely his clothing items strewn across the floor. Yet, instead of fretting over how this situation came to pass, he was more concerned about his future. He'd accomplished his seventeen-year mission. Hopefully, he'd atoned for his greatest ever sin.

So why was he feeling hollow inside?

"**_Be realistic! There's no going back to normal life after what we've been through! I mean, look at us! Our jobs chose us, not the other way round."_**

Those words he'd spoken to Arnold were coming back to him. How he sometimes hated being right! He'd served his purpose, now what? Was there a normal life waiting for him? The past two weeks were spent keeping Phoebe in several loops during her hospital stay, so there was that at least. Otherwise, the work didn't feel as fulfilling as it did before and when that bastard Scheck went down. Since then, he'd been merely going through the motions with his tasks without much sense of purpose. The only real joy he'd been experiencing was in getting to know Sheena so much better. He started dating her, which went very well, ultimately leading to—

"Hey, you're awake," greeted Sheena as she entered the room wearing only a well-worn sleepshirt and bearing two mugs of coffee. "Sleep well?" she asked, knowing full well that sleep was way down on the list of the previous night's activities.

"What little I _did_ get, yeah," Brainy conceded. "And by the way, aren't you supposed to be vegan?"

"Oh, Michael!" she threw back in pretend indignation. "It didn't seem to concern you last night. Besides, I didn't swallow, so that doesn't count."

Sheena handed him a mug then seated herself beside him. They sipped to their first night together and to a new day, though Sheena could tell that her man didn't seem to be quite in the moment.

"So what's up? You seem distracted." Sheena asked between sips.

"I don't know. I'm like…it's mission accomplished…so what now?" He owed her the truth about how he was feeling. "A long chapter has ended, and I don't know how to begin the next one."

He turned to Sheena in an unspoken appeal for guidance. Sheena, who by then had drained her mug, placed it on the floor, then fell back onto the bed. "Look, I'm no career advisor," she said with renewed longing in her eyes, "but perhaps I can point you in a possible direction."

More mental playback from Arnold:**_ "Whatever plans you make, you'd do well to include a certain paramedic."_**

Brainy needed no second invitation as he too set his mug on the floor before sliding over to her side. He positioned himself over her, taking in her radiance, her afterglow. Though she stood at 6'1", she'd never outgrown her gangly frame. Her curves were slight, her muscles firm yet yielding, as were her A-cups.

But the way all these features came together…she was heart and soul irresistible!

Before Brainy could register it, his hands were on Sheena's hips and had begun a stroking motion, up and down and oh so slowly. Eventually, he got a hold of her shirt, he bunched it up on each side as if to tell it its services would no longer be required. Sheena read his intentions, then writhed, wriggled and stretched to help him help her out of the garment.

And _there_ was the (hopefully) soon-to-be familiar sight!

Her olive skin, her pale pink areolae, her delicate tufts of light sienna pubic hair. Her face reflecting a longing against which he was defenseless, as he moved to kiss her. Deeply, sensually. He inserted his tongue, pressing against her teeth. He felt how she opened her mouth to let it in to engage her tongue in a wrestling match of twists, swirls, and probes. Meanwhile, down below he felt how she parted her legs, signaling another invitation. He heeded the invite – _oh, did he heed it!_ – as he scrambled to insert himself inside her. Finally…"Oh god!" Sheena squealed with ever-quickening breaths, impatient for the motions to start. And start they did, with slow, steady thrusts gradually building in pace and depth. Just as gradually, Sheena's walls tightened around Brainy, adding to the already overwhelming sensations. Soon – but not _too_ soon - Sheena's voice cracked, the pitch of her moans rising to the rhythm and intensity of Brainy's motion.

Until...

"Oh, Michael! Yes! _Yes_! _YES_!" as she reached her crisis point.

Brainy followed soon with his discharge, and the happy couple found themselves gazing at each other. Eventually, they separated and lay together in glorious contentment.

"**_Whatever plans you make, you'd do well to include a certain paramedic."_**

"Sheena," a still-gasping-for-breath Brainy asked, "truth is, I am considering an offer from another county far away from here."

"Yes?" responded Sheena.

"I called to follow up on the offer. We're talking a proper paycheck, regular hours, a chance of actual free time."

"Sounds tempting!" she sounded encouraging.

"Well, here's the thing. Uh…I'm only…y'know…_considering_ it because of one uncertainty."

"And that is?" her tone was rather dubious now.

"Well, you see…depending on how this one…_thing_…plays out, I could take the job, or I could stay in Hillwood…and be really happy either way."

"Michael, _what_ are you getting at?" her voice conveyed trepidation, maybe because she had misread or misunderstood…

"Actually, _you're_ the thing, the…factor…"

"Michael," the surprise in her voice spiked dramatically. "Are you saying…"

"Yes, yes I am. That I want you to be part of my future plans."

Silence.

"Well, you and…maybe a bigger bed…"

He turned to her and found her moments away from either crying or yelping. Assuming the former and all its negative connotations, he quickly moved to clarify: "Sorry, I didn't mean to make it sound like a marriage proposal! What I meant was…uh…wherever you see yourself in the future, I want to be there with you!"

Silence.

Finally, she spoke. "But you have to admit: 'Sheena Bartlett'," she mused while holding up her left hand to appraise an imaginary ring on her finger, "it _does_ have a certain…_resonance_…to it."

* * *

Arnold awoke. He awoke to find Phoebe seated by his bedside, also asleep, head slumped on the bed. He briefly considered letting her continue sleeping while he took in her beauty and dedication. _Briefly_…as he moved to stroke her hair and cheek delicately, while softly purring: "Hello, Beautiful. It's so great to see you."

Phoebe stirred at his words, opened her eyes to focus on her paramour, then replied with equal parts elation and relief: "Hello, Handsome. Sleep well?"

Before he could begin his answer, she was in his face, planting a kiss on his lips. The kiss was more than that; it was an outlet for the relief she was feeling, the realization that this was the man she had come to love over the past two weeks.

Their lips parted and Arnold spoke: "Anybody tell you that you're the prettiest nurse in the world?"

"Anybody tell you that you can be such a bullshitter?" she teased back.

"Do I at least get points for trying?" he asked in fake desperation.

"Oh, I have your points right here!" she issued as an equally fake warning, as she closed in for another kiss, more loving than the first.

"I meant every word of it, you know?" he pleaded his case. "Your face! Look how well it's healed! The swelling's completely gone! So's the bruising!"

"Such a romantic observation!" Though in truth, Phoebe was glad to be having this conversation at all. The alternative…she she didn't even want to consider the alternative. "But that's what happens when Sheena gets a hold of you and practically frogmarches you to the nearest available doctor. Who, by the way, was most impressed by your suturing skills."

"Least I could do," the blonde patient piped in.

"Anyway, Sheena convinces the doctor that I should be held for observation. One week that became two."

"How come?"

"I'll tell you later. Are you not more interested in what happened after that night?"

"Well, I know my old unit is now attached to Mister Smith's division. Major Knowles told me how I was airlifted from the harbor and of all the ops I had to endure. He said he had a record number of volunteers to accompany him to come and help with the extraction. And how I was under for the whole time and only regained consciousness five days ago. But nothing about Hillwood or our friends."

"In that case, strap yourself in…"

Phoebe then repeated what she had told the sleeping Arnold.

The investigation and fallout. ("_So Scheck died a terrorist! Good! No-one left to say otherwise.")_

FTI. (_"Good riddance! Hope they stay down this time!"_)

Olga's exoneration and freedom. (_"Thank god, the plan worked!"_)

Hillwood PD's damage control over Vasquez. (_"They'll bury that one for good. Count on it!"_)

Big Gino's rumored purchases and plans. (_"I told Brainy he wasn't in it just for the money! I knew it!"_)

Even her malicious online activity. (_"I understand. I really do."_)

Brainy and Sheena beginning to date. (_"Been a long time since my advice paid off like that!")_

When Phoebe was done, Arnold launched back into the matter of her hospital stay. "So, what about you?" he asked, treating that particular matter with more concern than all the preceding points combined. "Why two weeks? Did you have a concussion? How bad was it?"

"Well…you see, Arnold…" her tone suggested a reluctance to explain the details fully. It hinted that she was building up the courage, bracing herself, buying time to give the full story. "Actually…"

**xxXXXxx**

This sucked! This was so objectionable!

Phoebe Heyerdahl was supposed to be narrowing down Arnold's location. But no, instead she was bedridden at Drymon, having failed the concussion test in Doctor Singh's office."

"…And don't even _think_ of leaving!" Sheena had warned. "A concussion's no joke! You'll stay here and recover even if I need to have them cuff you to the bed!"

"URRRGH! _Fine!_" A pouty Phoebe huffed in defeat. "But can you at least bring me my laptop from Brainy's so I can work here?" She then saw Sheena's disapproval of her behavior. Sheena's look wasn't particularly glaring, but it was enough for Phoebe to realize how bratty she'd been acting. It was also enough for the journalist to issue sheepishly: "Sorry, Sheena. I didn't mean to become snappish with you when you are so concerned about my wellbeing. Sorry?"

So began her visit.

The first blood sample was drawn and three days later, the test results were in. They showed slightly elevated levels of UCH-L1 and GFAP proteins, hinting at a possibility of lesions on the brain. A CT scan was ordered, but due to a lengthy waiting list, Phoebe would have to wait four days for her turn.

She didn't mind the waiting; it meant more time to track the aftermath of the harbor shootout, more time to submit news articles and time to write a heavily sugarcoated obituary for Detective Mark Vasquez so that the public wouldn't see him for the duplicitous rat bastard that he was. The piece was good; so good, in fact, that it was picked up by several local outlets.

Eventually, it was her turn at the CT scan, by which time the swelling and bruising on her face had almost completely subsided. The scan results brought good news: no lesions; no swelling on the brain.

Time to check out then, surely!

"Er, Miss Heyerdahl?" the good doctor asked. "If I may, can we please run another blood test? To make sure that the UCH-L1 and GFAP levels have indeed subsided."

"_Fine_!" Phoebe was back to being pouty, this time without Sheena to restrain her. "But do I need to stay bedridden while you run the tests?"

"Not a problem! But please take it easy; you're still recovering, remember? And absolutely _no_…ahem…martial arts practice."

After three days of tracking FTI's demise and leaking evidence on Reddit from the house, she received the phone call.

"Miss Heyerdahl, the test results are back. Could we meet in person to discuss the outcome? Say, within an hour?"

"OK, Doctor," replied Phoebe, forty-five minutes later, seated in his office, accompanied by her parents, "what seems to be the problem?"

"It's not a problem per se. As far as your concussion goes, officially you're in the clear. No swelling, no lesions."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Well, you see, the lab picked up an anomaly in your second blood sample."

Phoebe had never had reason to consider a word like 'anomaly' to be a good thing in a medical context, so naturally: "What kind of anomaly?"

"Please understand, Miss Heyerdahl, that the lab ran the tests twice with the second sample, and both times the results showed the presence of hCG."

Upon which Phoebe Heyerdahl felt the ground give out from under her feet.

"Doctor, do you mean…" she couldn't finish the question, such was her shock.

"Yes, Miss Heyerdahl…"

**xxXXXxx**

"I'm pregnant, Arnold,"

Arnold felt the moisture drain from his mouth, and it was accompanied by a sensation not dissimilar to a HALO freefall without the parachute.

"It seems we met with us at our most concupiscent and me at my most fecund. And before you ask, yes, it's your child. Your personal effects were still at the house at the time. I obtained some hairs from your hairbrush, and I also got your toothbrush just to be sure. Sheena knew someone at a paternity lab to rush the tests, and the tests all said you are the father."

"But…but…_how_?" The words were crushing his vocal cords.

"Arnold, I'm not sure. I mean I was always cautious with Mark. I used contraceptives and insisted on prophylactics but there must have been some bizarre convergence of probabilities, as if the contraceptives wore off after my last session with him but before either of our two sessions or maybe it was the second one when it was so spur-of-the-moment and then you had to go to the cemetery and I forgot to…" she continued rambling, being Phoebe Heyerdahl and trying to bring logic, rationale, and advanced vocabulary into the mix. The more she rambled the more emotional and uncertain her voice became. She stopped abruptly when she saw his expression change. Bit by bit, as a hint of a smile first crept up. His smile grew…and grew…until it became that smile she hadn't seen since P.S. 118. That mile-wide, full-face, goofy, toothy grin of his. The smile he smiled only when he was absolutely ecstatic.

And he was smiling it at her. For her! _Her!_

Suddenly she forgot why she'd been rambling as his smile transfixed her. "Oh, come here, you goof!" she exclaimed as logic gleefully abandoned her and she pulled him closer - _Injuries be damned! Recovery be damned!_ – and peppered him with hugs and passionate kisses.

She was so fully invested in the moment, that it was up to Arnold to ask: "Phoebe, so your parents know that I'm the father?"

Phoebe broke away and her expression revealed absentmindedness giving way to a shocked realization: "Oh my god!"

* * *

As much as Arnold did and did not want to meet Phoebe's parents (whom Phoebe told him were waiting for them at his house in the country), he could not shake the feeling that the Sunset Arms bombing wasn't yet fully resolved.

"**_That's only because our inside man forgot to mention that there'd be bystanders on the day. Tragic, isn't it?"_**

Scheck's words were still with him. Arnold had no doubt that Scheck's taunt was the truth. If he used inside info to bring an enemy down, he'd want the enemy to know how all-encompassing the reach of Alphonse Scheck was and how no-one was safe from him.

Whoever facilitated this act for Scheck needed to account for the deed. Which was why Arnold checked himself out of the facility and was now being driven back to Hillwood by Phoebe in his Golf. The vehicle had been retrieved after the fated event, processed and declared clean, after which Smith had arranged its return to Phoebe via Brainy.

Leaving the base had been quite an easy affair; given that Arnold was neither in anyone's custody nor was he a suspect in any investigation, he was free to leave at his sole discretion. He was even allowed to reclaim his personal effects and his weapons, which had been delivered to the base after the investigation deemed their owner to have acted in appropriate self-defense.

Word spread of him leaving and before long Phoebe was witness to how loved and respected Arnold was within the unit. Soldiers lined the exit, offering salutes to "The Legend" as he and Phoebe made their way out.

Major Knowles _did_ ask whether he was certain of leaving when his charts showed he wasn't at full recovery yet. Arnold had explained that there was still one person with whom to deal: an as yet unknown someone from the old neighborhood who sold out Arnold, his friends, and the neighborhood itself.

"Lieutenant, this unknown man. How certain are you that he still resides in Hillwood?"

"That's the problem, Major," Arnold replied. "I'm _not_ sure. Hillwood just seems as good a place to start as any."

And the major, a man of honor, regulation, and procedure, understood by offering his blessings and a final salute.

**xxXXXxx**

"And you kept all of this a _secret_ from me?" Arnold yelled into his phone.

"I _had_ to, Arnold!" Foutley insisted. "The Sheriff ordered me to!"

"I did," Arnie confirmed with no hint of contrition. "I told Brainy to do the same."

"Brainy, you knew too?" Arnold's rising disbelief was threatening to undo two weeks' worth of recovery.

"I'm afraid so, Arnold."

"Why!?" demanded Arnold.

Why indeed. The four were conducting a conference call, the result of Arnold first calling Foutley to look into what kind of inside help Scheck could have had with the bombing. Foutley paused for a moment, then said he'd get back to Arnold. Ten minutes later, the call was happening, with Arnold on speaker so that Phoebe could participate as well.

"To keep you focussed on Scheck, Coz," Arnie explained. "Eyes on the prize, no distractions. Sort the small fry later."

"Yeah, well _fuck_ small fry! He sold us all out!"

"Arnold, take it easy please!" Phoebe cautioned from the driver's seat. "Losing your faculties will do no-one any good!"

"Arnold, if you won't listen to me then listen to Phoebe!" It was Arnie again, this time in his best take-charge voice. "What do you think would have happened if we told you? You'd waste time looking for him, splitting your time between him and Scheck."

"Yeah, Arnold." It was Brainy. "You needed to concentrate on Scheck more than anything else."

"Which was why the Sheriff had me look into him in detail while you guys handled that Scheck character," Foutley chimed in. "Which I have. I figured he was paid in cash for his services, so there wasn't a money trail to follow. But the mails did mention him being also rewarded with a place to live, rent-free. For life. So then I followed up on property and rental records before—""

"Foutley," Phoebe again was skirting the line between courtesy and urgency. "I'm sure your efforts were some dramatic flair, but perhaps it would be best to be more to the point with your disclosure."

"Very well, Mademoiselle," sighed Foutley, disappointed before nonetheless disclosing the location.

Arnold's and Phoebe's shock at the disclosure lasted for the remainder of their drive to Hillwood.

* * *

A bit later that afternoon, Gino Giovinazzo received a phone call, and the following conversation transpired.

"_Yeah?"_

"_Big Gino, I need a favor on behalf of a friend.'_

"_Who is this?"_

"_Not important. But we both have a common acquaintance: Arnold Shortman."_

"_The Boy Scout? What about him?"_

"_He wants to pay someone a visit tonight."_

"_And how the fuck do I come to into play in any of this?"_

"_Well, you'll certainly want to help him out."_

"_Fuck you! The Boy Scout and me, we're all square as far as I'm concerned. He got me the neighborhood back, I keep the authorities off his ass till the end of fucking time."_

"_Oh Gino, how I wish that was true. But there's still one loose end."_

"_So? Let the Feds handle it! They're doing a good job wrapping up the case. I read how they froze FTI's assets and bank accounts. Then they went after the estate of the late, lamented Alphonse Scheck. Now I'm getting word the State Attorney's gonna file a class action against the estate and—"_

"_Yes, I heard that too. They're still tracing survivors and next-of-kin."_

"_Oh, so we do have some common interests I see. Tell me, are we on the same side, you and me?"_

"_Only in that we both have the neighborhood's best interests at heart."_

"_OK, so how does the Boy Scout's mystery man figure in all of this?"_

"_Scheck had an inside man. Someone from the neighborhood who helped him with The Sunset Arms. Someone who sold out the neighborhood."_

"_OK, I'm interested. What do you know about the mystery man?"_

"_He's holed up in a suite at 4040 Vine Street. A reward apparently for his loyalty to Santalov and Scheck."_

"_Wait a minute! 4040 Vine Street? I just bought that place. That's the luxury condo block—"_

"_Where once stood The Sunset Arms. And how excellent it is indeed that you've acquired that bit of real estate."_

"_And you say he's been living here all this time? Under our fucking noses?"_

"_I'm afraid so. Thankfully, he's useless to the Bureau right now. What he knows about the matter won't help them at all. A prime candidate for a disappearance, wouldn't you say?"_

"_I would say!"_

"_So here's my proposal. I have it on excellent authority that Arnold Shortman will be visiting our friend at his residence within the next four hours. He is to be left alone throughout his endeavor. Once Arnold Shortman is done, once he walks out the front door, could you have a cleaning crew ready and waiting? I have a feeling that the reception will be a hot one."_

"_Four hours? That's…about nine pm. What sort of cleaning will you be requiring that late?"_

"_Very deep, and very thorough."_

"_The works, then. No trace left of grime and dirt. Sir, thank you for your concern. I'll have someone accommodate your needs in time. Now we get back to my first question. Who is this?"_

"_I'd rather my name remain undisclosed so that we can stay on friendly terms. I'll be sure to inform my guy of your assistance. Thank you."_

With that, the caller ended the call, leaving Big Gino scratching his head for a while before yelling: "Myron, get our best cleaners together! There's a job coming up later tonight!"

* * *

Phoebe parked the Golf in a parking garage two blocks away from 4040 Vine Street; she and Arnold would have to walk the rest of the way. Arnold was not yet fully recovered from his injuries, but the prospect of coming face to face with his betrayer was impetus enough to defer further rest and recovery.

Phoebe noticed as much and asked: "Arnold, are you sure you're still fine?"

Through gritted teeth, he replied: "Better than I was two weeks ago."

This was his military conditioning at work again, causing his mind to overrule his body's distress: his mind was set on seeing this matter to its conclusion. Onward they walked, in the unfamiliar area both had called home a lifetime ago. The neighborhood was much more opulent and attracted a better-heeled market, but both Arnold and Phoebe saw the evil black heart that lurked beneath the opulent artifice. And it sickened them: Big Gino's alleged plans could not come to fruition quickly enough.

They reached the building and Arnold stopped to take in the monstrosity that confronted him. The building was several stories higher, brick-and-mortar, steel-and-glass. Completely devoid of emotion and personality, a fitting symbol of how a generation of community and innocence was irrevocably lost.

Arnold allowed his emotions to settle as he and Phoebe entered into the luxurious foyer and headed for the elevator. The rode it to their destination floor, during which Phoebe issued one last caution: "Arnold, just promise me you won't do anything reckless. For our sake and for that of our baby." She emphasized the latter point by taking his hand and resting it on her belly. "This especially."

She could see in his eyes that he was struggling to reconcile acting on his revenge instincts with the reality that he was to become a father. In the end, all he offered was: "I'll try my best."

The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and the couple walked the final stretch of passageway to their destination door. Phoebe watched uneasily as Arnold drew his Glock and stood to one side of the door, allowing her to ring the intercom.

A pause, then the speaker came to life. "What?"

Phoebe glanced over to Arnold, who nodded in bitter recognition of the voice. She began her deception. "Good evening, Sir," she began in her sweetest, sexiest voice possible. "I'm your nine o'clock appointment, come to take good care of you."

"This is a mistake," the voice said from inside. "I don't have any appointments for nine o'clock."

Phoebe was prepared for this answer. "But Sir, this is the time and address for the appointment. And besides, the caller already paid upfront for the session. If you're saying this is a mistake, I'll just have to head back to the office and—"

"Wait! Wait! Did you say paid for upfront?"

"I'm afraid so, Sir. Oh well, I suppose I'll be paid tonight just to sit idly at the office."

No sooner had the words left her mouth when they heard sounds of the door being frantically unbolted and unlocked. During that time, Phoebe and Arnold exchanged places so that when the door swung open, Arnold was perfectly positioned to slam the side of his pistol flush in the face of his target. The man was staggered and stunned long enough for Arnold to force him back into his lounge, onto a leather couch where he came to a seated, groaning halt. Phoebe, meanwhile, hastened to enter the apartment and shut the door, thus granting them the soundproofing they'd – maybe? – be requiring.

She then joined Arnold, who was holding the man at gunpoint, offering a greeting: "Mister Kokoshka, _Oskar_! It's been a while, hasn't it?"

**xxXXXxx**

Oskar Kokoshka was fifty-six, but his physical features added at least ten years to that number. He was a wizened, pathetic figure. His hair was thinning into oblivion, though his faded copper beard was still as prominent as ever. He was also reluctant to answer questions regarding The Sunset Arms. At least, he used to be, before Arnold broke his left pinkie, to Phoebe's shock and horror. After the howls of pain, Oskar promised repeatedly to be more accommodating.

"So how come you're not dead?" Arnold began his questioning. "You were listed as one of the deceased. I even mourned you at your memorial for god's sake."

"Eh heh heh heh," he began with that fucking grating laugh of his. "It's divine intervention, no?"

Arnold reached for the left ring finger, which changed Oskar's tone dramatically. "OK OK! I didn't want to help them! They forced me! It wasn't my fault!"

"OK, then whose fault was it?" asked Arnold, pretending to humor the old man.

"Your grandfather, Arnold! And Suzie." Arnold felt his hand tighten around the Glock's grip at the mention of his grandfather. He resisted the urge to act any further, knowing that dead men tell no truths."

"Suzie left me, you see. Divorced me. Then there was no-one to take care of me! What woman just stops looking after her man, Arnold? And then just walks out on him? That's not right! That's just not _right_!"

"Oskar, you were a shitty husband. Suzie had all the patience for you, and you treated her like shit. You're lucky the marriage lasted as long as it did!"

"But it's still her fault! Where was I supposed to stay? She was supposed to take care of me! Instead. I'm at the mercy of your grandfather! And what does he do? He kicks me out after you leave on your little jungle adventure because I can't pay the rent. _Kicks me out!_ I thought we were all supposed to be family! Family is supposed help out one who can't make his rent!"

"Even family has its limits," countered an impatient Arnold. "Oskar, where is this going?"

"Anyway, I'm out on my ass, nowhere to go. So I start with the poker games again to make money. Only, the bastards keep cheating and next thing I know I'm five thousand in hock to one of Vitaly Santalov's loan sharks. These guys don't fuck around, Arnold! Miss a payment and it's a kneecap! What was I supposed to do?"

Arnold's expression suggested that he had stopped caring.

"Then one day the guy says his boss will erase my debt if I do his boss a personal favor. His boss wants to buy The Sunset Arms, but the old man kept telling him to go fuck himself. Maybe I can talk sense into the old man. Trouble is…the old man and grandma are now in the jungle to rescue you guys. Then they ask for a layout of the building. And I mean, it's easy work. Just tell them where the safety hazards are."

"Like the gas main?" growled Arnold. "And Mister Potts's dynamite stash?" His anger was rising.

"Easiest five grand I made. Just for some useless info. They make me stay in a safe house for a while. It's great, Arnold. Best sandwiches, best booze, hot bitches. Who needs Suzie anymore?" I'm like that for six months, then boss man Santalov personally comes to thank me. He's bought The Sunset Arms and built a luxury condo in its place. Fifty grand bonus for my info, plus the key to my own apartment!"

"You didn't even ask how this new building was built?" Arnold's anger was now a rage that had metastasized throughout his body.

"Tragic accident they said," Oskar explained. "They said I died in the explosion. They had a dead body hidden in the basement and an ME who'd say it was me. Plus, a new identity. I still had to lie low. No problem, if it means a life of gambling and bitches!"

"But what about the people you helped kill? The lives you destroyed? The community you ruined?"

"What about them?" Oskar callously commented. "They treated me like shit all my life, they got what they had coming! And why are you so upset anyway? The way I heard it, your friends at school were still giving you hell for your trip. Especially that bitchy blonde girl in the pink dress. She hated you anyway, didn't she? I did you a fucking favor!"

Arnold felt himself lifting his Glock towards Oskar as the latter began another laugh: Eh heh heh heh heh…"

Oskar was still laughing when the first gunshot rang, and the first bullet struck him in the chest. Then the second in rapid succession. Then the third. After the fourth, he stopped laughing and remained smiling as he stupidly peered down to see the bloodstains spreading across his shirt, mingling and becoming one. He looked back up with disbelief in his smile, as bullets five, six, seven and eight struck him as well. He died where he sat, not having had the time to change his smile to an expression of shock or fear.

Arnold was surprised; he hadn't fired a single shot. He turned to Phoebe, to find her pointing a subcompact 9mm pistol towards the late Oskar Kokoshka. Her eyes reflected hate and horror, shock and surprise, held together by uncertainty.

"Phoebe..?" he asked hesitantly.

"It's funny, Arnold," she began, calmly. "Even after you killed Scheck, I wasn't convinced that I was fully safe. So I paid Bridget another visit with my concerns and she set me up with this…I believe it's called a Walther CCP. I was hoping I'd never have to use it, just as I was hoping to prevent you from acting irrationally over here. Well..," her initially stoic voice was starting to crack, "fifty percent is still a passing grade, isn't it?"

Tears were welling, but she continued. "I'm sorry, Arnold, but I couldn't listen to his sociopathic rationalizing anymore! I killed before in self-defense. This one was different. This one was malice, this was hatred. I _wanted_ to kill him. He sold you out, he sold me out, he sold us all out." Her voice weakened as her emotions rose. "Then he had the nerve to live comfortably as a result. He killed them, Arnold. Helga, Gerald, your family, everyone!"

Her voice became lost between sobs that were becoming louder and more frequent. "He made it happen! He's no better than whoever made the bomb and detonated it! He killed them all, Arnold. He killed them all!" Her sobs had become wails as she focussed again on Oskar's lifeless body. "_HELGA! GERALD! GIVE THEM BACK! GIVE THEM BACK, YOU SON OF A BITCH! GIVE THEM ALL BACK!_"

The emotion was now too much for her as she dropped her weapon and launched herself at Arnold, to clasp him and cry loudly and unencumbered into his chest. "That's it, Phoebe," Arnold softly consoled as he holstered his weapon, the better to return her embrace. "Just let it out. It's alright. It's over now. It's all over," he continued, realizing that this was probably the first time ever that Phoebe had properly mourned her deceased friends, now that her goals for truth and justice were finally accomplished. Into his chest, she wailed and whimpered and mewled, until the tears ran dry. When she could cry no more tears, she remained in his comforting grasp.

"Arnold," she finally spoke, "am I a horrible person? Am I destined to be a horrible mother?"

Arnold didn't answer immediately. He pulled away to look at her. He then lightly kissed her on her forehead and replied: "Come, Phoebe. Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Phoebe's pregnancy was intended from the beginning, but it would have to be, in her words, 'a bizarre convergence of probabilities'. The trick with making it plausible was to keep her long enough in the hospital so that a blood test would be able to detect a pregnancy. The earliest possible time for that to happen is 6 days after ovulation. Plus, I read in a medical journal about a newly discovered blood test for concussions (current, circa 2019) so I incorporated that too into the story as a sleight of hand. So basically, I got the facts first and built the story around them. Also, I was trying to avoid the standard pregnancy giveaway of morning sickness and constant nausea. I'm sure Phoebe would appreciate the more scientific, medical approach.
> 
> Author's Note #2: I want to talk about two particular music tracks that influenced this chapter. Though the Spotify list is fairly comprehensive, this chapter was built mostly around two of those tracks. Jan Hammer's 'Payback' was what I had playing in my mind as Arnold and Phoebe made their way to Oskar's apartment. Then Phil Colins's 'Do You Know, Do You Care?' guided me for Arnold's interrogation of Oskar. Listen to that second song especially; the anger and emotion are so raw, and to paraphrase a YouTube commenter, there's nothing better than a pissed-off Phil Colins.
> 
> Author's Note #3: So even Brainy needs some loving! I originally wanted a third sex scene with Arnold and Phoebe before the harbor showdown, but I couldn't fit one in and have it make sense within their time constraints and Phoebe's injuries. Then it hit me: why not have one with Brainy and Sheena instead? They've known each other for years and both wanted more from their relationship. Plus, you get to read my guess for Brainy's name.
> 
> Author's Note #4: I initially wanted to include a dream sequence in here for Arnold, but the more I wrote that sequence, the more I realized that it was slowing the pace of this chapter. It's been moved to the next chapter and as a result, chapter 26 is a third of the way complete.
> 
> And here's this chapter's Spotify list:
> 
> Janie's Got A Gun - Aerosmith  
Lay Down My Life - Carole King  
Imperfections - Céline Dion  
Throwing It All Away - Genesis  
Payback - Jan Hammer  
Broken Wings - Mr. Mister  
Kiss Me Slowly - Parachute  
The Tower That Ate People - Peter Gabriel  
Do You Know, Do You Care? - Phil Colins  
High Hopes - Pink Floyd  
The Fletcher Memorial Home - Pink Floyd  
Down That Road - Shara Nelson  
Love On A Real Train - Tangerine Dream


	26. Ndibiz' Igama Lakho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Phoebe makes a life-altering disclosure to Arnold as soon as he regains consciousness before they embark on one last task for ultimate closure which yields a most shocking outcome to at least one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

** _His friends._ **

Arnold was back to his eleven-year-old form, standing in a dark and narrow passage, with the only way being forward. So forward he went until the passage opened up into a lit alcove to reveal…Curly, who after a rather subdued greeting and icebreaker had a wild story to tell.

"Well you see, they originally sent me to Hell. Since then, it's just been appeal after appeal. Hell says I belong in Heaven; Heaven says no fucking way, quote-unquote."

"Sounds…interesting," was all that Arnold could say to Thaddeus Gammelthorpe to placate the gleefully maniacal little sociopath.

"Tell me about it," concurred Curly. "I mean, you know you've made an impact when God Himself gets held in contempt for shouting under oath that you're an irredeemable douchebag, while Satan says on the stand that there might still be hope for you at redemption! And that's not even the fucked up part! The trial appears to have caused some kind of constitutional crisis between Heaven and Hell that'll take forever to fix. Until then, I'm free to travel between the two places as I wish."

Curious as Arnold may have been to hear out the full story, he wanted to leave the bespectacled one alone, the chief reason being the unfriendly looking, rhino-sized, three-headed dog lying beside Curly.

Curly caught on to Arnold's interest and explained: "Oh, don't worry about Serby here. He follows me around every time I leave Hell. He's super chill; you just need to scratch him and rub his belly every now and again."

"Er, I'll take your word for it," Arnold said cautiously, noting how the fangs of the beast wear at least the size of an adult human's fist. "Look, Curly, I really have to get going to say hi to the rest."

"Before you go," Curly said as he removed his reflective glasses to reveal true melancholy in his eyes. "You didn't have to do what you did, least of all for me. Look, we were never really friends…but thanks for everything, I guess…"

"Arnold simply smiled at him and said: "Take care, Curly."

Arnold continued forward, watching Curly disappear into the blackness. A short while later, some more of his colleagues came into view: Harold, Sid, and Stinky.

Stinky was the first to notice him, announcing in his usual slow drawl: "Boy Howdy! If it isn't our not so departed friend, Arnold."

"Arnold!" shouted Harold in a weeping voice as he ran in for a tearful embrace. "I missed you!"

Harold was joined in short order by Stinky and Sid as the trio threatened to suffocate Arnold with their joy. "Guys! Guys!" shouted Arnold as he struggled to free himself.

"Arnold, Old Buddy Old Pal!" called out an emotional Sid. "We're just so relieved you're still alive on earth!"

"Yes indeed," drawled Stinky. "But was it really necessary to put yore life at risk just for the sake of obtaining retribution on our behalf?"

"Yeah, Arnold!" reflected Sid, almost in tears. "Look, we weren't always on our best behavior towards you. And…well we didn't always stick up for you, especially in San Lorenzo…and even afterward…"

"Yeah," Harold added in his normal whiney voice. "Were we really so important for you to go after that _furshlugginner gonif _and almost get yourself killed?"

Confused looks from Arnold and Sid.

Slow-spoken clarification from Stinky. "Ah do reckon that Harold is dee-scribin' that rapscallion, Alphonse Scheck, who put us in our current state."

"Harold, why didn't you say so in the first place?" Sid scolded, having finally caught on. "Anyway, don't listen to Harold. I'm glad you snuffed that bastard! He did you wrong Arnold. He did _all_ of us wrong! And all you ever did was stand up for us all, even when we didn't deserve it!" Sid was still on the verge of crying as he spoke.

"Not that it changed anything," Arnold reflected sadly. "You guys were still robbed of your lives."

"That may be so, Arnold," Stinky spoke once more. "but Ah reckon yore quest for closure and justice to be no less dee-zerved."

"Yeah," added Harold. "And if anyone up here says you're not a good person, me and the boys will let them have it!"

"Yeah, Arnold." Confirmed Sid. "You always did right by us in the end, we'll do right by you."

"Most certainly! Naysayers bee-ware! " A final drawling affirmation from Stinky before the trio converged for a final, tearful group hug and sent him on his way. Soon, they too were lost in the black mist.

Onward Arnold trudged until the next lot appeared: Rhonda, Nadine, and Eugene. His reception there was no less enthusiastic, with hugs and squeals of delight all around. The dominant topic of discussion was, again, how glad the apparitions were about his continued survival. Rhonda seemed especially pleased as she proclaimed in true Rhonda-style: "Oh, it's not as if I was expecting anything less from you, Arnold. I just knew you'd step up for someone as sensational as me. Oh…and Nadine and the rest of the gang too."

"I'm just glad it worked out that way…" Arnold had to concede.

"Yes, whatever," said Rhonda as she waved off his attempt to downplay his achievement. "Now let us give you your reward." With that, she and Nadine approached him to plant simultaneous kisses on opposite cheeks. "We always wanted to do that," they said together, desperately trying to stifle their shy giggles.

Eugene was bolder. While Arnold was focussed on what the girls had done, he felt a tug on his arm and was spun around into a protracted, full-on kiss from Eugene on the lips. The girls shrieked at the sight, though their combined tone hinted more towards surprise at Eugene having finally gathered the nerve to do what he was doing.

Once the walking jinx parted lips with Arnold, he proudly proclaimed to a wide-eyed and floored footballhead: "And I've always wanted to do _that!_ Thank you, Arnold, for always having our backs, no matter what!"

Arnold was still too disorientated to process what had just happened, which was just as well as the darkness engulfed Rhonda, Nadine and Eugene and the path re-emerged. He followed it until…

** _Gerald._ **

"Arnold my man!" exclaimed Number 33 as he moved in for their signature handshake, followed by a brotherly hug. "It's so good to see you! So good to know you're still alive and you're only visiting!"

They launched into a conversation that covered, amongst other topics, Gerald's earthly condition _("Yeah, instead of being worm food, I can now fit in an ashtray!"_), his siblings _("I'm glad Jamie-O's not such a dickhead anymore and that Timberly's applying herself so hard for a change."_) and his parents _("I don't think they're happy in Florida. I give 'em another two years to move back to Hillwood. Tops!"_).

Then Arnold became the topic and the mood suddenly became solemnly uncertain.

"Gerald," Arnold tentatively began, "I...want to talk about Phoebe…"

Back on earth, Gerald had not been a factor in any decisions Arnold had made regarding Phoebe. But here, on a different plane of existence, coming face-to-face with his best friend suddenly made the footballhead feel guilty about even broaching this topic. Gerald cut him off instantly by raising a hand. "Arnold, I've been dead for a long time now. It's clear to me that you love Phoebe and truth be told, there's no-one better for her…at least now that _I'm_ out of the picture, anyway. Look, you want my blessings? You got it! Now stop worrying and move along!"

They shared one last secret handshake before Arnold voiced one more regret. "Gerald, I'm only saddened that my actions couldn't bring you and everyone else back…"

"Nah, Arnold," Gerald consoled his best friend, "you did what you had to. And you did good, my nigga. You did real good!"

And before Arnold could do a double-take on what had just been said, Gerald was also lost to the murk, with the passage emerging once more and leading him to…

_ **His family.** _

"_MOM! DAD! GRANDMA! GRANDPA!_" His eyes welled with joy at the sight of his long-lost family. He ran to them at a record pace, where he was greeted with the most profound, most loving group hug he had ever experienced. This was a dream and he knew it, but he didn't care: the love he was experiencing was all too real.

"Hey, Short Man!" Phil hollered.

"Kimba, my boy!" Gertie's love was flowing freely from her eyes. As were Miles's and Stella's from theirs. "It's you! It really is our son!" they spoke as they joined their elders in regaling the young boy with hugs, kisses, and affection.

Then the questions, which encompassed a wide gamut of pronouns, adverbs, and other phrases.

"How?"

"Who?"

"_Who?"_

"_That bastard!"_

"Really?"

"_How?"_

"_Good for her!"_

"_Oh, good for you, Short Man!"_

"_When?"_

"How was it?" (Asked by Phil, and resulting in Gertie slapping him…)

"Why?"

"When?"

_Really?_

And so on and so forth until…

"_Oh my god!"_

"So you're saying you became a hardened killer for Uncle Sam, as a consequence of you seeing everyone and everything you've ever loved and cared about getting blown to smithereens," Phil summarised with his usual tactlessness. The crass statement earned him the ire of Arnold's parents, as well as a dislocated hip from one of Gertie's kicks.

"Yeah, that's the gist of it," admitted Arnold. "Not what any of you might have predicted for me, right? Even I saw myself as an academic or a humanitarian, or—"

"_STAND AT ATTENTION, SOLDIER!_" Gertie's Drill Sergeant holler cut through his confession and caused all present to stand bolt upright. Arnold turned to see her suddenly garbed in a Three-Star General's uniform as she began blaring at him.

"_I WON'T STAND BY AND HEAR SOME ARMY RANGER WHO'S GIVEN HIS ALL FOR HIS COUNTRY TELL ME HE REGRETS HIS DECISION! LOOK AT YOU, SON! LIFE DUMPED THE BIGGEST LOAD OF CRAP ON YOU, AND YOU DIDN'T LET IT GET YOU DOWN! YOU ROSE, SON! YOU CHALLENGED LIFE BACK, AND YOU WON! YOU HEAR THAT, SON? YOU WON! YOU KICKED LIFE BACK IN THE BALLS! YOU MADE A SUCCESS OF IT! AND ON YOUR OWN TERMS!_"

Stella's reassurance was significantly more subdued. "Arnold, Honey, we all realize you think you've disappointed us by having a career that may have involved killing people. But think of the good you've done with your skills. People you've rescued, loved ones you've reunited."

Miles joined in: "Son, there are people out there who are alive today only because you intervened. People out there now have justice because of your efforts. It wasn't always pretty what you did, but it was necessary. And I…_we_…" he motioned to the group as he corrected himself, "…all understand, and we don't hold anything against you. We love you and always will. _Always_ and without fail."

"Yeah, and you bagged yourself a fine filly in the process!" Phil cut in with another inappropriate comment, which earned him a swift kick in the crotch from Gertie that raised his pitch by at least three octaves.

One final group hug with nary a dry eye later, and the group sent Arnold on his way.

To his final destination: The airport terminal.

Where she stood…

** _Helga._ **

Once again they had the entire building to themselves. Her back was facing him as he approached her. "Hi Helga," he greeted, more subduedly than the occasion may have warranted.

Helga was still looking away as she replied: "I guess this is it, heh? Mission accomplished, loved ones avenged, wrongs righted." Her voice conveyed plaintiveness and knowledge of impending, irrevocable loss.

Arnold had no immediate answer, so Helga continued. "You do realize that this is the end of _us_, right? I was sent to motivate you in life. Actually, I _demanded_ that the big guy send me to help snap you out of your doldrums. Of course, he said no, but since when have you ever known 'no' to stop me? So there I was, to help you move along, however you would interpret 'moving on'. Didn't know it would involve you becoming a stone-cold killer, but there you go." She tried smiling at the last part, but the melancholy in her was too much for the smile to overcome.

Her melancholy was edging towards sadness. "Which means that my work is done, and I must now let you go." With that said, she turned to reveal her face to Arnold, who saw that even angels were capable of shedding tears.

"Helga, are you crying?" he asked.

"No, Footballhead!" she replied in a jumble of emotions held together by her caustic nature. "It's just so hot even my eyes are sweating! Of _course_ I'm crying. I mean, now that you've found your closure – violent, gruesome closure, granted…but closure nonetheless! – you don't need me in your dreams anymore. You don't need me to haunt you at random moments anymore. You're free now to live your life without being held back by your past! And I'm happy for you, my love, have no doubt. Really, truly, one-hundred-and-one percent happy!" Her tears were not abating in the slightest. "It's just… that I'm now entitled to an eternity of angelic bliss…but the cost is I'm not supposed to harbor any feelings for you!"

But…

"And I know you've found Phoebe back on earth and I acknowledge and wholeheartedly support the two of you together."

...here came the complication…

"_BUT I'M NOT READY TO GIVE UP THE MEMORIES OF MY PRECIOUS, TREASURED FOOTBALLHEAD! EVEN IN THE NAME OF SOME ARBITRARY 'MASTER PLAN' BY SOMEONE WHO CAN'T EVEN GET HIS OWN HOUSE IN ORDER!"_

Her outburst was the most tearfully impassioned he'd ever heard from any person, living or dead. Arnold responded first by placing his hands gently on her shoulders, after which he softly said: "Helga, I love you too, and until three weeks ago you were the single biggest motivator for me to get on with my life. And I recall the advice I received from someone wise and wonderful, reminding me that my happiness was now back on earth with someone else."

He then pulled her in for one final embrace, once more astounded by how real the sensation of having her close to him felt, how delicate her sylph-like body felt in his arms and pressed against his chest. Suddenly, he was saddened by what he was about to say, by what he _had_ to say: "Helga, it's time for _both_ of us to let go."

And an angel would weep once more, knowing that she had heard the truth of the matter.

"Arnold," Helga spoke, "you're a footballhead. You were born a footballhead. And you always will be a footballhead! And I am so, so glad that from a few precious weeks, you were _my_ footballhead." Helga then pulled her head away from Arnold's chest to soothe her emotions and to stare one last time into his limpid, emerald gaze. "Now go down there and be _Phoebe's_ footballhead!"

There was one last, unspoken wish expressed by her gaze, which Arnold happily obliged as his lips closed in on hers for one last celestial kiss.

And so it ended where it began. Two adolescents, sharing a heartfelt kiss at a Central American airport.

Their lips touched and caressed, their breathing became heavier, their grips on each other tightened. That one kiss evoked two lifetimes' worth of memories and emotions: hatred; indifference; acceptance…love.

And then…a refulgent flash of brilliant white light enveloped the couple and their surroundings and Arnold was carried instantly back to consciousness, but not before hearing Helga's final bit of advice:

"_Love her fully…_"

Little did Arnold know that this was to be his final dream with Helga in it.

* * *

Arnold awoke in the darkness of his room. Beside him slept Phoebe, her breathing slow, steady and oh so soothing on the ear. The morning had not yet broken, so he reached for his phone on the nightstand to check the time. Three o'clock, damn! Oh well, he'd just have to try going back to sleep.

"Something the matter?" he heard Phoebe ask from her side.

"It's nothing much," he replied. "Just a dream and then some thought."

"Mm," yawned Phoebe as she seated herself to stretch the sleep out of her system, "must have been quite a vivid one to have woken you at…what time is it anyway?"

"Three o'clock."

"So what was it, a nightmare?" Phoebe continued.

"Nah, more of an epiphany if I'm being honest," he answered.

"Ah, hence the thought," she declared as she seated herself more comfortably. In doing so, she left the bedsheet slip off her which revealed her twelve-week baby bump. "So, what were you thinking about?" she continued with her questioning.

Arnold didn't answer immediately; he had turned to face Phoebe and caught sight of her beautiful bump beneath her ever-tightening sleepshirt. And suddenly he was reminded of the past three months' events.

Them leaving Hillwood for Arnold's home to meet Phoebe's parents. Kyo and Reba acting exactly how Phoebe predicted when she first met Arnold all those months back: showering him with hugs and gratitude and kisses from Reba for saving and protecting their daughter. Even more thanks for his role in saving their lives without them realizing it.

Kyo and Reba asking several stern, solemn questions about their plans for the unborn child. Reba and Kyo expressing elation at the prospect of becoming grandparents. Kyo and Reba declaring there and then that they'd be moving to the county to be closer to their upcoming grandchild whom they were already planning on spoiling rotten.

Arnold's and Phoebe's next course of action was to visit Arnie, firstly to show the sheriff that his favorite cousin was still alive, and secondly to visit Hilda and little Helle. The sight of Helle, with her mother's facial features and her father's dull blonde hair, was cause for much cooing and fawning from Arnold and Phoebe, who fought each other for chances to hold the infant. And when Phoebe announced her pregnancy, Hilda was positively over the moon as she forewent all professional decorum to offer hugs and congratulations to the Asian woman while promising whatever help and support she could. A lifelong friendship began that very moment, to last well beyond the birth of Phoebe's child.

As for Arnold and Phoebe, they'd have their own series of long and complex discussions regarding the way forward for them and the little one.

Where would they live? (_At Arnold's place._)

How would they split the utilities and bills? (_Phoebe, being as pragmatic as always…_)

Would Phoebe be able to work remotely from this town? (_Absolutely!_)

How were the health facilities? Educational institutions? _("Whoa, Phoebe! Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren't you?"_)

Anyhow…six weeks comprising several calls, several more emails, logistical and other disagreements (some heated, some punctuated by unpredictable mood swings), regular check-ups for Phoebe and a steady recovery for Arnold. Not to mention some grief with the movers from Seattle and Honolulu…and finally! Kyo and Reba were settled in a little picket-fenced home of their own, while Arnold's and Phoebe's relationship had – _properly!_ – advanced to the cohabiting phase.

He considered all those events. He considered the here and now.

"Arnold!" Phoebe snapped him out of his thoughts. "Your mind's wandering off again! Anyway, what _was_ on your mind just now?" she repeated in a gentler tone.

Arnold smiled another of his infectious smiles her way and said: "I was thinking about how happy I am right this moment."

"_Again_? Arnold, this is becoming monotonous!" Phoebe pretended to treat his proclamation as an inconvenience, though he knew her well enough by now to know that inside she was lapping it up every time he told her how much she meant to him.

_Still…_

"OK, if you're bored of hearing me say how much I love you...if you want some new material, wait just a moment…" He was smiling mischievously as he got out of the bed and left the room and a bewildered Phoebe. Phoebe heard him heading to the study – _their_ study now – followed by some heavy shifting. Clearly, he had something to show her, so she took the time to retrieve her glasses from her nightstand and switch on her bedside light. Eventually, he returned, though he remained at the doorway.

"You know, Phoebe," he began, with his initial mischievous look gone and in its place a profound uncertainty plus one tightly clenched fist, "sometime after I moved to San Lorenzo, I got a package in the mail…sender unknown. It was some of the personal effects belonging to my grandparents and my parents. Mister Smith…well, he pulled some strings after the initial investigation to claim the items and ship them to me. I heard all of this from Brainy. He also told me it was Mister Smith who fast-tracked my move to San Lorenzo, and now that I think about it, it kinda makes sense why Eduardo didn't take long to finalize the move."

He paused, not from emotion but from uncertainty, but eventually he powered on. "Anyway, one of the items he sent over…was _this_," he said as he made his way from the doorway to her side of the bed to kneel by her side while unclenching his fist to reveal…a simple gold band. The revelation almost caused cardiac arrhythmia in Phoebe as she sat up in ramrod straight attention.

_Could he be..? Or am I misreading his intentions..?_

Phoebe opted to downplay her expectations. "Arnold, it's three in the morning and my sleep has been disturbed by your restlessness. I've bed hair and morning breath. Not to mention, I'm twelve weeks into carrying our child. And here you are, showing me a seemingly random item of jewelry. How am I supposed to interpret your action?" She was trying her best to sound as academic and as expressionless as possible.

Arnold, however, took her words at face value as he continued his explanation: "Well, you see…this is..._was_…my grandmother's wedding band. Grandpa placed it on her finger when they were married. It's not much, as you can see, but it carries decades' worth of love and devotion shared by two people." Phoebe felt her breathing becoming shallower and faster, though she remained steadfast in her calm charade.

Arnold persisted. "Phoebe, I'd very much love for you to have this," he said simply. "I'd like for us to continue in their footsteps."

And Phoebe, moments from hyperventilating, insisted on taking her game even further. "Oh, and how long would you have me hold on to it? How long are we to continue this legacy?" she asked in a professional tone which became more strained by the second. "Any specific timeframe?"

"Nothing definite," replied Arnold, his tone and expression hinting that he was now on to Phoebe's game. "There _are_ a few benchmarks. Like…'sickness and health'? 'Richer…and poorer'? 'Till death do us part'?" He reached out to present the ring to Phoebe as he spoke those words. Phoebe snatched it from his hand, her face now a reflection of welling love and eagerness about to overflow.

"So that's my story, Phoebe," Arnold continued. "Will you…aah…what I mean is…do you see yourself sharing the rest of your life with me?"

Phoebe didn't answer immediately. Arnold watched as she placed the ring on the appropriate finger, then stared awestruck at it, her playful, pretend indifference all vanished and forgotten. She then turned to Arnold and proudly displayed the band now nestled on her ring finger.

And answered, smilingly and tearfully: "I do!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: By now you've run the chapter title through Google Translate to find out that is Xhosa for 'I Call Your Name'. Why use a Xhosa title? Why not? If nothing else, I enjoyed hearing how it flummoxed MS Word's text-to-voice facility. And unlike Trevor Noah, I can be trusted with my Xhosa translations.
> 
> Author's Note #2: The two characters with whom I had the most fun this chapter were Curly and Stinky. I took the chance to explore briefly the implications of the former's worldly amorality in the afterlife, while for the latter I wanted to be as phonetically accurate as possible with his drawling speech, even if Grammarly kept asking what the hell I was presenting it.
> 
> Author's Note #3: I'll admit to a small amount of self-indulgence that went into the Arnold/Helga scene. What can I say other than this: When you're Shortaki, you're Shortaki...for life!
> 
> Author's Note #4: Even before I started writing this story, I had several setpieces playing in my mind. The action scenes, of course, but also specific dialogues and scenes such as the proposal. For the proposal, I wanted Phoebe to give off her usual vibe as someone who is easily capable of an emotional response but would rather temper it with facts and logic. Hopefully, that's exactly how it came across.
> 
> And here's this chapter's Spotify List:  
Dream Baby Dream - Bruce Springsteen  
Blue Eyes Blue - Eric Clapton  
Let It Take You - Goldfrapp  
These Dreams - Heart  
I Call Your Name - Johnny Clegg and Savuka  
A Time And Place - Mike and The Mechanics  
Luv (sic), Part 5 - Nujabes (feat. Shing02)  
He Got Game - Public Enemy  
Linger - The Cranberries  
Edinburgh - The Lake Poets  
Hymn To Her - The Pretenders  
Hold Me Now - Thompson Twins


	27. Dance Across That Sea Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Then boy, are you late for the party! Anyhow, Arnold reconciles with his friends in the afterlife, before returning to the real world to make his future plans known to Phoebe.

The feeling is unreal: the knowledge and realization that today is his forty-fifth birthday. The number carries even more significance to him as it means that he'll be older than either of his parents were when they died. There are still occasional moments when he'll shed mournful tears over their deaths. Over time though, Arnold Philip Shortman has found the best way to honor the memories of his parents and grandparents by living his fullest life possible.

His friends, family, and acquaintances have done just that over the past seventeen years, to varying definitions of success.

* * *

Michael Bartlett, aka **Brainy**, for instance. He declined Arnie's offer to work in what would be the Sheriff's new Intelligence Division, citing that he belonged in the urban jungle that was Hillwood and that even after the demise of Scheck and FTi, the city still needed him to keep tabs on matters. To that end, he quit being a CI and struck out as a private investigator. He retained most of the human and material resources from his CI days to become one of Hillwood's most sought-after PI's. At least he no longer has to lie to his parents about his vocation, though he'll be damned if they ever hear of his involvement in the downfall of Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck. That aside, his relationship with his parents has improved tremendously and visits are no longer exercises in patience. Introducing Sheena to his parents did help matters, with his mother being especially ecstatic that he has someone special in his life. Currently, he works mostly on retainer for law firms, though he still finds the occasional 'interesting' case to throw at **Lana Vail**.

Speaking of Lana Vail…her hard, diligent work saw her reclaim her reputation as Hillwood's most feared defence attorney. She never lost her proclivity for bedding young studs, so when Arnold met her at Brainy's thirtieth birthday party for the first time after she left The Sunset Arms, he was in no danger of any improper advances.

Back to Brainy. His predictions of a post-FTi Hillwood were mostly on point. New threats did come and go, though none were anywhere near the magnitude of Scheck's activities all those years back. Nevertheless, his intel-gathering skills remained critical, if unsung, in thwarting and convicting would-be terrorists, assassins, and other odious characters.

Brainy did confess to Arnold – despite everything, the two had become fast friends, down to the handshake Arnold once shared only with Gerald – that he valued his low profile. Little attention to him, after all, meant equally little attention to his long-time live-in girlfriend, **Sheena Gross**. Not too long after the harbor incident, Sheena felt the need for a less volatile medical career. Inspired by her Aunt Shelley, she studied part-time to become a Registered Nurse, a position she's held to this day at Drymon Medical Clinic. She'd be lying if she said the work was less strenuous. However, incidences of her life being threatened on the job have been significantly reduced. She became friends with Phoebe, not quite a bestie like Hilda but close enough for visits to culminate into rather raucous girls' nights out (post-pregnancy, of course).

Sheena and Brainy lived together for about ten years after the Scheck incident, with the bigger bed which Brainy had recommended. After ten years, however, without so much as a hint of a suggestion of a proposal from Brainy, Sheena did what any lovelorn person would do: she took the initiative herself and proposed to him, bent knee and ring and all! Brainy would later confess to Arnold and Arnie that his own uncertainty was what forced the situation and that he accepted her proposal very tearfully. They've since been – in his words – 'eventfully, but generally happily, married.'

**xxXXXxx**

**Olga Pataki** certainly made the most of her second chance. However much money she pocketed, whether from her late husband's full pension or his ill-gotten gains, she considered it all immaterial. She moved out of her suburban purgatory, back to the old neighborhood which following Scheck's demise had indeed been repurposed as a low-cost housing development. Now in her fifties, she has recounted to Arnold and Phoebe – the latter with whom she is now on a civil first-name basis – what a pleasure it was to witness over the years how the neighborhood reclaimed its lost character. It's now a place where bodegas and small mom-and-pop stores serve the community, free from the encroachment of big-name franchise gentrification. Children may not play in the streets and parks at all hours, nor are they permitted to walk the streets 24/7 as was the case in her days, but by god do they treasure their outdoor activities!

Which is not to say that the neighborhood is perfect. Crimes still occur, and only the most foolish would not consider at least the most rudimentary security measures. But the point remains: the neighborhood was never perfect, _ever_. That's why people needed to adapt it – and adapt _to_ it – to make it first their home, then their community. And that's exactly what has happened over the past seventeen years.

Olga Pataki chose to fulfill her soul by combining her one solace and her one joy in life: classical music and teaching respectively. She's been giving free piano lessons to the neighborhood children ever since she moved in. Over the years, 'Miss Olga' introduced the love of music to new generations. Most of her students found escapism in her classes, while an isolated few took the matter seriously and are now furthering their studies in more prestigious settings.

And mostly for her personal benefit, Olga began a YouTube channel comprising her renditions of various classical pieces to many appreciative subscribers, hits and praises. Her YouTube popularity attracted sufficient demand for public performances and to this day she is a popular and critically acclaimed regular on the local classical music circuit. Her most requested pieces are her 'delicate and emotional' interpretations of Claude Debussy's _The Girl With Flaxen Hair_ and _Rêverie,_ which she always tearfully dedicates to 'my wonderful baby sister' and which never fail to move the audience to similarly mournful tears.

Olga's biggest fan, one **Miriam Pataki**, is finally living what she believes is a fully contented life. Having now entered her eighties, she considers her life's work complete now that she and her once-estranged daughter have mended their relationship, and also because her daughter had found success and happiness on her own terms and not through parental pressure. Miriam has retired from retail and remains physically and mentally active, mainly through her daily swimming regimen. She even started swimming competitively, and currently holds a few State Records in her age division. On a social note, she's as active as ever in the senior (and _not_-so-senior) dating scene where she continues breaking hearts and causing discs to slip.

Though **Helga Pataki** may no longer be the only common factor binding Olga and Miriam, she remains the most important. Olga and Miriam have made an annual event out of visiting Helga's grave on her birthday. Arnold and Phoebe, then later Brainy and Sheena also joined in the visits and the reminiscing. Over time, many dubious – borderline suspicious – aspects of Helga's past have come to light, including how exactly she was able to obtain the footage she used to cobble together the video that allowed for the fateful trip to San Lorenzo. Arnold remains unsure whether he should remain honored by that gesture, or now be creeped out by it. It also happened during the second annual pilgrimage that Arnold presented Miriam with the locket that was meant to be Helga's gift on that fateful day, citing how it belongs with its intended owner. Miriam accepted the gesture wholeheartedly and since then the locket remains displayed with Helga's dress in Miriam's study. It's message proudly displayed: '_A new heart_…_for the awesome girl who won mine.'_

Though Miriam is genuinely happy with her lot in life, her one point of – _slight_ – discontent is that she may not die a grandmother, little knowing that Olga is now seriously looking into child adoption, a point the latter shared with Arnold and Phoebe under the promise of absolute secrecy, for the time being at least.

**xxXXXxx**

The old neighborhood may be back to its old, diverse, characterful self, but a lot of behind-the-scenes finagling had to take place for that to happen. For one thing, the protection against demolition and large-scale commercial development afforded to it as a historical site was reinstated following the death of Alphonse Scheck.

"_And I'll cut off the balls of any of you two-faced duck-fuckers who so much as thinks about fucking with the neighborhood! Then I'll personally feed them to your wives! Understand?_" Gino Giovinazzo, aka **Big Gino**, is _alleged_ to have warned at the first Post-FTI sitting of the City Council. They obeyed. He had dirt on all the city's higher-ups and power players: of _course_ they'd obey.

Big Gino also footed the legal bill for a class action suit against Scheck's estate brought on by the former residents who were displaced after the Sunset Arms bombing, or their next-of-kin. They sued for emotional trauma and lost earnings, and the case was settled out-of-court for an undisclosed – though rumored to be very generous – amount.

Over and above that, he also arranged that title deeds were sent to the displaced residents who could be successfully traced. Results were mixed: some of the intended recipients had died, while others flatly refused to return to the scene of their lost innocence. A lot did return, including **Martin and Mrs. Johanssen**, together with **Gerald Johanssen's** ashes. They'd come to realize how much they missed Hillwood and their family and vowed never to leave again. They've since been subject to the occasional visits from Arnold and Phoebe, whom Martin says will always be welcome in the Johanssen house.

Not that any of this suggests that Big Gino has gone good: he still needs to eat, after all. His enterprises have expanded with smuggling cigarettes, alcohol, and critical-care medication. There's also talk of how he closed down the gun-running operation and relocated it to San Lorenzo. Fine by **Bridget**: with Scheck gone, she reckoned her work in Hillwood was done anyway. Besides, introducing cheap weaponry to a populace who'd otherwise be unable to defend themselves against river pirates and other unsavory sorts was just the thing to scratch her itch for dispensing justice. One must also consider that since Scheck's foiled attempt at exploiting San Lorenzo's natural resources, the country's rainforests have been declared protected natural wonders and heritage sites. An armed populace _could_ go a long way in deterring the oil companies, mining companies, and developers who'd decimate San Lorenzo's endemic biodiversity in a heartbeat. Local word of mouth also has her on _very_ friendly terms with **Eduardo**, though for a long time both remained tight-lipped regarding that assertion…

Back in Hillwood, Gino receives his cut from the weapons sales and all the other revenue streams, so he isn't hurting for cash. The thing is, he always puts money back into the community. A soup kitchen here, new features in a park there, new books and PC's for the library. Everybody in the community knows how he earns his money, yet they all develop amnesia when asked to provide details. They also know that Big Gino has his thumb on the scale at City Hall and Police Headquarters, but since they reckon he's doing it all for the neighborhood…well, who gives a shit?

Brainy, that's who! Well, he and **Mister Smith**. While Big Gino keeps close tabs on the politicians, Brainy and Smith keep close tabs on Big Gino. It is Brainy's sincere wish that he won't be forced to act against a Gino gone rogue. So far, so good.

**xxXXXxx**

**Arnie and Hilda MacNeille** remain prosperous in their professional and personal lives. Arnie has remained Sheriff of the county, winning all of the elections by such landslides that the electoral process is considered a mere formality: speculation centers more around how big his winning margin will be for a given ballot instead of his chances of victory. For good reason too, as he has modernized the rural law enforcement's methods and resources. OK, so he couldn't rope in Brainy for his proposed Intelligence Division, but no problem: **Carl Foutley** was long overdue a promotion anyway and was instead chosen to head the section, even though it meant having to curtail his off-the-record activity. Curtail, but not cease entirely. Just in case…

Thanks mostly to Arnie's efforts, the county's crime stats have been among the lowest in the state. But he'll be damned if he ever lets himself rest on his laurels.

Not that his work will _ever_ be more important than his family.

Shortly after birthing their daughter, Hilda retired from the Sheriff's Department. The Denkova incident had impacted her more than she let on and in a rare moment of vulnerability, she confessed to her husband that her maternal instincts made her fear that a day on the job could dawn that wouldn't see her return home by the evening. Her decision was wholeheartedly accepted, with the tears flowing freely at headquarters at the news of her departure. She'd always been a talented writer and so sought to forge a writing career. Seventeen years of hard work and persistence later, she holds the unusual distinction of authoring a bestselling children's book series, as well as two equally bestselling erotic novels. She was quoted – out of context, she claims – in an interview speaking of her flexible writing ability: "_Well, I'm nothing if not flexible. Just ask my husband…_"

**Helle Stella MacNeille**, their daughter, is growing up a fine young woman. Paler blonde hair aside, she's otherwise the very image of her mother. Unfortunately, she's also inherited the droll, pedantic, monotone personality of her father when he was a child. Instead of reading labels, however, she finds joy instead by dismantling and reassembling anything mechanical, electric or electronic. As a toddler and adolescent, she was the cause of many voided warranties in the MacNeille household. It was therefore just as well that her high school offers shop class, in which she is regularly top of her class. Despite her – _inherited_ – personality traits, she's no pushover, known at school for possessing the hardest headbutt. She _does_ have a circle of friends, even a boyfriend who won her affection by lasting two rounds of MMA against her. One-and-three-quarters, really, as she choked him out just before the end of the second round, but by then he'd already made an impression on the girl's heart.

Despite her quirks, she remains a sweet, humble, intelligent person. She really is her parents' pride and joy.

**xxXXXxx**

_Finally,_ there's the fate of **Arnold Shortman and Phoebe Heyerdahl**.

About two months after Phoebe accepted Arnold's proposal, the two were married in a private, intimate ceremony. Sure, they could have waited until after Phoebe birthed their child, but Phoebe's romanticism and sense of tradition overrode her logical faculties: she wanted to be a bride before she became a mother. The ceremony was attended by family and close friends that included Brainy, Sheena, even Miriam and Olga. Eduardo took a break as a prominent San Lorenzen community leader to attend the ceremony as well, accompanied by his girlfriend, Bridget. Eduardo suggested a formal Green-Eyed ceremony which was summarily shot down by a pregnant Phoebe once Arnold explained just how long the ceremony would last. Instead, a Justice of the Peace was appointed to marry the couple.

Phoebe gave birth to a healthy baby girl christened **Galena Heyerdahl-Shortman**. What a beauty she is: she has her mother's face and hair and ears, and her father's eyes. As she grew up, her personality developed into an aggregate of her mother's logic and her father's childhood whimsy. Today she's a consummate all-rounder at school with way-better-than-average academic performances coupled with sound athletics performances, particularly in middle-distance events. She gets along very well with her cousin Helle; regular play dates as tiny tots saw the two develop a very close rapport which developed over time into something best described as a hybrid of a tight friendship and a strong familial bond.

At one point, Galena started querying about her origin, given that she had seen her parents' wedding photos and noticed her mother's protuberant bump which she correctly guessed contained her. The parents admitted to her premarital conception, though Arnold teased her about how close she came to being conceived in an alleyway. Galena has never since raised this topic.

After Galena's birth, Arnold continued as a bounty hunter, while Phoebe retired from journalism to ply her skills in writing non-fiction crime books. She authored two bestsellers detailing prominent cold cases, in her venture for truth and closure for victims of crimes long forgotten and in need of reopening. In doing so, she began letting herself heal from the memory of that night when she emptied eight rounds into Oskar Kokoshka, with her sole motivation being premeditated malice. It's just as well that the murder of Oskar Kokoshka remains unsolved; in fact, no investigation was ever opened. For that matter, his body was never found. Brainy was eventually able to piece together what happened after she and Arnold left Kokoshka's corpse. Gino had a team of cleaners on standby, having gotten word of Arnold's intended visit. While half the crew deep cleaned and sanitized the apartment, the other half seized the body, chopped, sawed and butchered it into more manageable chunks and elsewhere introduced the chunks to a woodchipper. Brainy thinks that Oskar Kokoshka is currently enriching some forestland somewhere in the state of Washington, which is the most good he's ever likely to have done.

All the while, Arnold and Phoebe took to parenting more easily than either had expected (which wasn't really saying much at all...) despite all the pitfalls: the sleepless nights; the projectile vomiting; the visits to the doctor at the slightest indication; the nursing and the dirty diapers. Fortunately, Kyo and Reba were there to assist in the matter and help the young couple survive (and ultimately thrive) as parents. Eventually, Arnold and Phoebe reckoned they had the hang of this whole parenting thing.

But fate is a fickle friend and so more was in store for the couple.

Four years after Galena, the twins arrived. Arnold was gobsmacked by the announcement of Phoebe's second pregnancy, before later being rendered catatonic by the announcement that twins were in the offing. Eventually, he and Phoebe welcomed **Miles Kyo and Reba Stella Heyerdahl-Shortman** into the world. Whoopie! Twice the fun! But soon enough, they too were considered no big deal to raise, even if it did mean having to extend the house and switch from a hot hatch to a Volvo SUV. He knew his world had changed irrevocably when his main considerations for a new vehicle changed from 0-60 times and road-holding ability to the number of Isofix brackets and airbags as standard.

These two…_these_ two: heads and unruly hair like that of their father, with only their mother's eyes and jet black hair as evidence of her genetic contribution. Much like their father, they are predisposed to bouts of whimsy and realistic optimism. These traits and their easy-going nature have won them many a friend over the years. They've also inherited their mother's brains, much to Arnold's admitted relief.

* * *

Today, Arnold looks at a life he never thought he'd ever make for himself given his tragic circumstances and stands a humbled man. He has the love and support of a beautiful, wise and intelligent wife for whom he'd go to the ends of the known universe many times over. Through his children, he has a chance to continue the Shortman legacy.

He has never forgotten his dearly departed friends and family, for whom he and the brood make an annual trip to Hillwood to visit their graves and memorial. He wishes to keep their memories, good and bad, alive in his heart. He hopes that they are smiling at the success he's made of his life. After all, he lives his life daily in their honor.

And for Helga too.

Especially Helga.

In her honor.

** _THE END_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea was for the story to run no more than twelve chapters. About that...  
I started with a premise and framework, plus a list of specific key story elements:
> 
> 1) I was aiming at the outset for an M-rating. And not just for graphic content, but also for complex social, financial and legal issues that would fly over the head of a K-rating.  
2) I wanted to include at least one action setpiece.  
3) I wanted at least one scene featuring hand-to-hand combat.  
4) There had to be a sex scene (or two...).  
5) The word 'fecund' had to be used. I first (and last) encountered this word at varsity back in 2000 in an Applied Mathematics module (Biological Modelling III) which included a case study on the net birth rates of Southern Right Whales.
> 
> But as the story progressed, more ideas popped up in my mind. New setpieces. New bits of dialogue. New characters. Heck, when I started this project, I didn't even have Scheck, Sheena, Lana, Olga or Miriam's extended role in mind. And I hope you all agree that the story would not be the same without this lot.
> 
> It reminds me of a Project Management course I did back in 2017 in which we were warned about 'scope creep' and its pitfalls. We were warned of how unexpected changes and additions can delay projects. But this is writing fanfiction. There are no penalties (at least financially) for missing deadlines; heck, the deadlines here are all self-imposed anyway. All the same, I did find myself adhering to a self-imposed writing regimen that helped structure my days. Furthermore, I've found this to be a therapeutic exercise, especially after a day comprising my 9-5 followed by me teaching kickboxing classes between 6 and 8 pm.
> 
> Some nights weren't even spent writing because I was researching numerous aspects of the story. Here's a small, random sample of my Chrome search topics for In Her Honor:  
'Maximum sentence for attempted murder in Washington state'  
'Washington police tattoo policy'  
'Premium piano brands'  
'Major arteries in the body'  
'Best subcompact 9mm'  
'How does being shot feel?"  
'Area of brain that controls impulses'
> 
> There's not much more to say except to thank all you wonderful readers once again for seeing my title among a sea of possibilities and thinking: "You know what? I'll give this one a go." I value the faith each and everyone showed in me, and I hope that you are not walking away dissatisfied. I might revisit this universe for a few short spin-off stories, maybe to expand on some points to which I alluded. Who knows..?
> 
> Anyway, this was my one big Author's Note. On now to the final chapter's Spotify list:
> 
> Time Passages - Al Stewart  
Sailing - Christopher Cross  
Ordinary World - Duran Duran  
Take A Picture - Filter  
You're The Voice - John Farnham  
Dance Across The Centuries - Johnny Clegg and Savuka  
The Sun Goes Down (Living It Up) - Level 42  
Se A Vida E (That's The Way Life Is) - Pet Shop Boys


	28. Bonus Chapter: A Lime-scented Confession 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back in the world of 'In Her Honor' to capture a snapshot of the life of Arnold and Phoebe after the harrowing events of the main story. There's no further intrigue to be had: this story is a strictly personal tale from the homefront, comprising only two parts and focussing on a certain married couple.
> 
> All seriousness though, the main event here is one I excluded from 'the main story due to pacing considerations. I've decided to reinstate it as part of a short arc, and also hopefully to fix the glitch in this story implying that I never completed it over here (I did).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

The setting was no less picturesque despite its familiarity. Picturesque, but also – and this was the critical part – secluded. It was a rock pool situated an approximately two-mile hike from their home. It was picturesque in that it was surrounded on three sides by sheer cliff faces, with a slender, sparkling waterfall cascading into it. It was inviting in that the inky blackness of its deep, seventy-five by seventy-five waters was a veritable oasis during the spring and summer months. And it was secluded in that its location had for a long time been known only to Arnold, who as it happened was also the owner of the land on which the pool was situated.

Arnold's honorable discharge from the military came with a Three-Star General's pension, a sweetener for the controversial events that culminated in said discharge. From there he reached out to what remaining family he had, which turned out to be only Arnie. Arnie in turn had relocated from his childhood breadbasket region to a county defined by the beauty of its rugged and leafy pristineness.

Arnold fell in love instantly with the county and its surroundings upon his arrival there. To the extent that after visiting Arnie – who by then was into his second year of married life with Hilda – he made the local realtor his next destination. A few days, a few discussions, many handshakes and many more signatures later, Arnold found himself the owner of a peri-urban lodge together with a sizable tract of adjacent mountain land. Which, as he would later discover during one of his many hikes through the terrain, included the spectacular water feature he found himself sharing with his wife today.

Today was a rare day that saw the couple with time to break away from their daily routine. It was a perfect summer day, three months shy of Arnold's thirty-sixth birthday. Their eldest child, daughter Galena, was away at a summer camp with her cousin and best friend: Helle MacNeille, only daughter of Arnie and Hilda. The twins, Miles and Reba, were off road-tripping through Canada with their grandparents – Phoebe's parents. Phoebe wasn't feeling particularly productive as a writer that day, while Arnold was finding bounty hunting less stimulating by the day. He'd confessed that he was considering retiring from the profession and opening up a flower shop instead.

So there they were, making the most of the pleasant weather.

Eight years had passed since their ordeal with Scheck and his organization, and Arnold Shortman and Phoebe Heyerdahl-Shortman were now living what both imagined was an ordinary life. Granted, the events from eight years prior were not a reliable benchmark for what could constitute 'ordinary'. Still, any life devoid of the shootouts, punchouts, betrayals, general lawbreaking – anything, really, that could devolve into a life-or-death struggle – would fit the bill.

Of course, fighting Scheck did not come without its mental toll, particularly for Phoebe who would still experience the occasional nightmare about those she'd killed and helped Arnold kill. Seeking professional help was not an option. Doing so would entail confessing to past activities that didn't have a statute of limitations and which could provide several exceptions to the doctor-patient privilege.

How fortunate then, that the couple had each other. Phoebe had in Arnold a loving, caring, empathetic husband. True, he wasn't a qualified psychologist, but his ability merely to listen to her, to relate his own battlefield experiences with her, to put her wants and needs above all else: all of it proved invaluable. Even his mere touch added to Phoebe's healing. With his soothing words, a gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder or a reaffirming hug was never far away to remind her that he was with her for the long haul.

So too was Phoebe's presence invaluable to Arnold. Who would forecast that chance meeting eight years ago when she came knocking at his door after seventeen years? Who would seek to defy the odds further and envisage what she would come to mean to him? A wife whom he would cherish until death. Mother to his three children. The woman he loved more than any other, who came from nowhere to give his life purpose and direction.

"_Arnold! You're daydreaming again!"_

Indeed he was, as Phoebe's holler had pulled him back to reality from his reverie at the water's edge.

He was smiling as he called back to Phoebe, his tone feigning displeasure at being disturbed: "Aw _come on_, Phoebe! You know you just interrupted a wonderful daydream!"

Phoebe had called while treading water some thirty feet away from him. "In which case," she smiled as she called back to him, "I'd _better_ have been a part of it!"

"Why do you think it was wonderful?", he replied with sincerity that she knew he could never fake in a million years.

"Oh, you!" she relented as she began swimming towards him. He admired the elegant tropism with which she moved through the water. He watched as she inhaled deeply and dove to complete the rest of the distance underwater. He was ready when she emerged inches from him, to accept her in his welcoming embrace, his arms around her waist.

Any excuse would do, just to hold his wife, garbed as she was in her periwinkle blue – her trademark hue – tankini, her wet hair seductively slicked back.

"And just how exactly can I be assured that you were indeed dreaming about me, _hm_?" she teased. "For all I know, you could have been fantasizing about some buxom blonde beach volleyball player in her early twenties, instead of a thirty-six-year-old mother of three whose tits have started sagging."

Arnold didn't miss a beat as he pleaded his case. "Hey now! There are _so_ many things wrong with that statement. One, you _know_ I prefer my hypothetical buxom beach volleyball players to be redheads! Two, I'd be foolish as fuck to want to trade down from you! Three, there's only one ass in the world I like to pat and squeeze anyway and you _know_ that!"

He emphasized that last point by moving his hand down from her hip to her buttocks, where he gave the one cheek a series of quick pats followed by a firm squeeze.

"_Hey!_" yelped Phoebe in reaction to the squeeze. "_Arnold Shortman_, are you having impure thoughts involving me?" she asked in faux indignation.

"It's been known to happen," he replied laconically.

Phoebe had to smile at that response. Time hadn't made him an intellectual match for her, even if he could keep up with her in conversation. In terms of pitting their wits against each other however, they were equals. Besides, she was addicted to how he always knew _just_ what to say to brighten her mood. And she was going to milk him for all the flattery she could get.

"So that's the derriere dealt with," she declared. "Now how about the aforementioned sagging tits, _hm_?"

"I'll comment when I'm presented with a pair," Arnold replied, his head equally in the game. His eyes were firmly focused on her chest as he continued: "Thus far I see no evidence of their existence."

"Has old age made you blind?" reacted Phoebe, who then made an arch display of cupping her breasts from below to plump them up for her husband. "What say you upon viewing the evidence?"

Arnold's response was first to make a very exaggerated display of observing Phoebe's mammaries, followed by equally exaggerated deliberation before answering: "Sorry, but I find no evidentiary basis to support the plaintiff's case."

"_I object!_" rebutted Phoebe, reveling in the legal make-believe that had developed. "I have it on record that when I was pregnant with Galena, my breasts swelled up to C-cups. _C's_, Your Honor, _C's!_ Now my husband must once again make do with B-cups!"

"Well, I have it on record that your husband has testified – _under oath_ – that he prefers your well-shaped killer B's anyway."

"But Your Honor! I—"

"_However_…" Arnold cut her off. "The court is more than willing to conduct its own independent investigation to determine the quality of the plaintiff's breasts. Does the plaintiff find that proposal satisfactory?"

"Oh, indeed she does!" Phoebe replied as she moved in to kiss Arnold delicately and sensually on the lips. She even saw fit to prise open his mouth with her tongue and slip it in. He offered no resistance as he allowed her ingress, welcoming her with his own tongue to push and twirl against hers.

Meanwhile, his hands were occupied with her breasts, squeezing and lightly kneading them to her ever-hastening breaths inside his mouth. He slid his hands down to her waist before slipping them under the tank top and sliding them back up to her B-cups, the better to continue his ministrations without any fabric interference. In response, Phoebe's breathing defied physics and probability by intensifying even more, evolving into a soft, rich moan that his ears and mouth welcomed all too willingly.

For him, the sensation of his bare hands massaging and teasing her breasts was threatening to overload every one of his pleasure receptors, as it always did even after countless iterations. He suddenly ceased his 'investigation', withdrawing his hands from under Phoebe's top and pulling away from their kiss.

Phoebe was caught by surprise. The kissing and canoodling had rendered her stupefied almost to the point of drooling, as evidenced by her tongue still hanging out of her wide-open mouth as she fought to regulate her breathing. At the same time, she appeared mightily aggravated that the activities had ceased. Arnold was all too aware of what she was conveying and knew he'd have to make his explanation count.

"The court finds.." he began, equally as out of breath as his beauteous wife. "The court finds that—"

"Oh who _cares_ what the court finds?" huffed Phoebe in frustration before going back to kissing her man. Furiously. Hungrily. Insatiably.

Arnold met her in her unbridled lasciviousness, kissing her back with equal intent. Intermittently he'd break away to nibble on her neck and collarbone to more of her murmurs of pleasure. Phoebe in reciprocation would break away to kiss his nipples and swirl her tongue around them. She too attained her desired goal, leaving Arnold bristling from top to toe with joyful excitement. Soon the boiling point was reached, prompting the better halves to part and to prepare frantically and hurriedly for what was next. If they were racing each other, then Phoebe emerged the winner. By the time she had relieved herself of her bikini bottom – which she'd accomplished partly due to an elegant and efficient underwater somersault with a tuck – and tossed it over to the water's edge, Arnold had just managed to extricate himself from his checkered swim shorts. Check had remained his pattern as periwinkle had remained Phoebe's color. He'd barely tossed it aside when Phoebe was back on him like an amorous barnacle, her intentions as clear as the water in the pool.

Arnold's too, as not even the brisk water was deterring the throbbing bulk between his legs. He let Phoebe take the lead as she took hold of his shaft and guided it to her slit. A few oh-so-tantalizing rubs together, then…he felt himself slip inside of her. The sensation – that of her snug, inviting, tight-fitting warmth – may have been familiar, but time had done absolutely nothing to diminish its effect on him. He still longed for it the way he did after they'd first had sex in the motel room eight years ago. It was his addiction; _she_ was his addiction! An addiction he began feeding with his thrusting motion. Slowly at first, building up at a gentle rate until he'd established an ideal and sustainable rhythm.

Phoebe didn't mind his gradual build-ups. Every moment with Arnold's length, girth and pulsing rigidity within her was a moment savored. A moment celebrated first by her biting down on her lower lip, to delay her expressing her carnal bliss. Then, as her delaying was rendered futile her thoughts and desires were made vocal in breaths quickening by degrees and a pitch rising just as gradually. As his rhythm quickened, so too did his stroke deepen until eventually he had reached all the way to all the pleasure centers in her brain, flooding them, overwhelming them. And as he continued pumping and grinding within her, her response came in high-pitched gasps in tune with his motion.

To Arnold, there was Phoebe and only Phoebe as he continued relentlessly with his motions. He felt himself being squeezed tighter and ever so tighter within her. Squeezed for every drop of his being as he continued the rhythmic rubbing against her inner walls. It was the most joyous of vicious cycles ever imaginable: the harder he pumped, the better it felt; the better it felt, the harder he pumped.

Before long, their surroundings became their personal echo chamber as Phoebe's paroxysms of ecstasy became loud enough to resound off the cliff faces. Both she and Arnold were too much and too far into each other to care about any privacy implications from the echoes. If anything, the echoing sound of them amidst the throes of their water-based lovemaking only spurred Arnold on to his limit and beyond just so that he could hear more of Phoebe's amplified orgasmal voice.

Time passed unnoticed by the trysters, its very concept rendered moot.

The end came when Phoebe's voice cracked. She had withheld her climax for as long as she could and she could hold it no longer. Her voice cracked as she loudly made known to Arnold the peak of her sexual excitement. Arnold, sensing that his end was near as well, clenched his teeth as his thrusting sped up to unhealthy levels…until he groaned deeply as he felt himself erupt within Phoebe. A few more hard, isolated thrusts followed as he drained himself completely.

Husband and wife spent several minutes afterward, staring into each other's glazed eyes in contented silence with Phoebe in Arnold's warm embrace. But even his warm embrace was insufficient to overcome the chill waters as their once-elevated body temperatures returned to normal.

Soon they were toweled off and appropriately attired. They were also walking hand-in-hand back home in silence that was anything but awkward. Arnold broke the silence eventually with: "So, does the plaintiff still wish to hear the court's decision?"

"Oh? I didn't know we were still playing this game," responded Phoebe, thinking that the game had been abandoned. "Oh, very well!" she granted Arnold his indulgence, not wanting to sour his playful mood. "Would you please present your findings?"

Arnold cleared his throat loudly and unnecessarily before proceeding. "In that case…the court finds no basis for the plaintiff's claims that her breasts are sagging or otherwise inadequate."

And such was the magic of loving Arnold. He gave his love on every level: mind, body and soul. That last comment of his, for instance. As big a smile as Phoebe had been wearing following the sex, Arnold's playful but sincere compliment made it bigger still. So too did the peck he placed on her cheek upon issuing the little bouquet.

"_However_," he continued, much to her surprise, "should the plaintiff wish to appeal the ruling, the court will be more than willing to launch as many investigations as required."

"How thoughtful!" Phoebe chuckled lightly at her husband, before kissing him back on his cheek.

They continued their hike back home, again in the silence that spoke of all being right in their world that very moment. At least they did so until Phoebe broke the silence with: "Say, Arnold? A thought just crossed my mind."

"Yes?" he replied, all ears.

"Well, I've zero doubt of your devotion and your desire towards me.." – she paused as though still considering how to phrase correctly what was on her mind – "…and, well, it stirred my curiosity. Prior to our chance meeting eight years ago, was their ever a moment when you considered me physically attractive?"

Arnold responded by coming to a silent stop, his expression conveying low-key surprise at her question.

"Phoebe," he eventually answered using words, "I'm not sure I can answer that question. I mean, you're asking me to go back to when my age was barely into double digits and I was more interested in sports and adventure than I was in girls."

"What I mean is," she hurriedly clarified, "you know already that I had a nascent attraction to you back in P.S. 118, at least before Helga made her intentions obvious to me." – He did; Phoebe had mentioned that point before – "But then later when I saw you in that synchronized swimming competition…let's just say it stoked a brief but very intense, very primal, physical attraction within me. You in those skimpy Speedos...!"

She finished the last sentence with a most mischievous smile. Quickly though, she shook her head and forced herself to stay on topic.

"So that's _my_ example. Arnold, even way back then, even considering that your age may at most have barely reached double digits, even considering that the opposite sex may not have always been high on your priority list…was there a moment when – for however briefly – your elementary-school mind considered me attractive on a physical level?"

Arnold went back into thought, giving Phoebe hope that an answer – an example – was forthcoming. Her hopes were answered when next he spoke.

"You know, there was that one time when..," and then he moved to whisper the rest into her ear as if suddenly scared some wayward doe would stumble across his confession and begin spreading rumors.

He needn't have worried; his confession was heard only by Phoebe. Her initial response comprised wide-opened eyes unseen by Arnold, together with a silently mouthed "_Oh!_"

As he continued elaborating, a smile appeared on her visage. Small at first, it slowly grew until it had become a full-fledged wicked grin, accompanied by unequivocally mischievous eyes.

_Yes indeed_, she monologued internally, _I must definitely remember that one!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for now. I hope you found it to your satisfaction. I won't be going into any detail as to what inspired what scene here. To which I suddenly hear you shouting en masse: "Oh thank you, Lord!"
> 
> What I will confess to, however, is that MS Word's text-to-voice is a riot with sex scenes. Hearing that monotone voice describing the heat of passion never gets old!
> 
> So instead here's the Spotify list (with a contribution from YouTube (since Spotify doesn't have any Police versions of 'I Burn For You' which I tailored to focus more on the underlying emotions than the actual deed:
> 
> Since You've Asked – Dan Fogelberg & Tim Weisberg  
I Burn For you – The Police  
Thru and Thru – The Rolling Stones
> 
> And that's it for now. Until next time.


	30. Bonus Chapter II: Something That You Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Sometime during the aftermath of In Her Honor, Arnold and Phoebe have sex. This particular act spurs Phoebe to ask Arnold a question, and his answer sparks some mischief within her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

_What a day!_

So thought Arnold as his thirty-sixth birthday was approaching dusk. Birthdays to him had long lost their appeal; thirty-six, in fact, was only significant in that he was now only four years shy of forty. His optimism eventually overcame his dry logic, allowing for reflection on just how lucky he was to have first made it past puberty, let alone his thirties given the shit he'd had to deal with to get to this point.

Anyway, the _bah-humbug _act was futile. Even if he wasn't that big on birthdays, he was father to a brood of children who were more than willing to pick up the slack. As they did that Saturday morning and reminded him of how others out there would be envious of the life he'd made with Phoebe. The children bombarded their parents' bedroom with their raucous well-wishes and their heartfelt, if totally off-key, rendition of Happy Birthday. After that, Arnold had to brace for impact as the children threw themselves onto the bed in a bid to be the first to give Daddy his birthday hugs and kisses. Miles claimed the victory, even if he did end up smooshed beneath Reba and Galena, to his protests and his sisters' merriment. Laughter abounded as father and children reveled in the gaiety, the children competing for their father's attention.

Their mother resigned herself to being the spectator to the activity, a referee at best. In any case, she was due to leave later that day for research on her current book-in-progress. Somewhere in Olympia, Washington there was a cold case file awaiting her undivided attention and she had to leave within the hour anyway to make that appointment. Which she did, but not before kissing her family goodbye and promising to return by Sunday morning.

Next, Arnold had plenty of opportunities to praise the advances in telecommunication as he received IM and VoIP messages from far and wide. Brainy and Sheena were the first to wish him well. The former took the opportunity to comment again on how much safer and vibrant Hillwood was becoming and that he who is Arnold should seriously consider coming back home. It was at that point were Arnold used his standard countermeasure by introducing Phoebe into the equation and commenting: "But I'm already home."

As ever, that would be the end of Brainy's attempt. Sheena capped off the call by commenting once again on how much handsomer Arnold looked without the blood, bullet wounds, drip tubes, or the broken bones.

After that, the usual suspects weighed in with their homages. Eduardo called, ostensibly to wish his foster son a blessed day but mostly to show off his girlfriend Bridget and her second trimester, thus proving that the old man still had plenty ink left in his biro. Olga and Miriam followed in short order. Smith, too. And Foutley, who called from the station even if his Caller ID pegged him as calling from Kakamas, South Africa.

Then came the one unusual suspect: Myron, the hulking, well-versed, articulate brute of an intellectual. He also happened to be the bodyguard-cum-lieutenant-cum-confidante of one Gino Giovinazzo, aka Big Gino – who'd always be indisposed due to running Hillwood from behind the scenes. Thus, it was always up to Myron to call on his employer's behalf to wish Arnold 'a most prosperous birthday'. Myron's call would always coincide with a courier delivery comprising a gift basket – champagne, grappa, limoncello, and all sorts of Italian culinary exotica – and this year was no exception.

And of course, a visit from his extended family had become a mandatory event. Arnie, Hilda, and Helle dropped in to offer their best wishes. Helle was tasked with presenting Uncle Arnold with his gift: a new harmonica. A thoughtful gift, appealing to Arnold's long-dormant harmonica skills which he as an adolescent would often display to an equally adolescent Arnie during their visits as a pretext not to talk to the antisocial cousin. Pretext or not, Arnold's skills did impress Arnie to the point of being sad to hear that Arnold had stopped playing the instrument following the bombing all those years back. Arnie's gesture was gladly accepted by an almost teary-eyed Arnold. The MacNeilles then went on their way, with Galena in tow as they were all going on a camping trip that would only see them return the next day.

Lunchtime saw the in-laws drop in. Alas for Arnold, not even being the birthday boy could earn him the spotlight. Kyo and Reba – for that was what he now called them – were all over Miles and little Reba the moment they walked through the door. Somewhere between all the fawning and cooing, he swore he heard a 'Happy Birthday' spoken his way. At least his in-laws came bearing gifts. OK, _gift_ (singular): a well-tended, utterly gorgeously trimmed bonsai tree.

"I trust your floral cutting and arrangement skills will serve you well in maintaining its pristine condition," explained Kyo with an ever-so-subtle undertone suggesting undesirable consequences should anything unfavorable befall the plant.

With the formalities handled, Kyo and Reba left with the twins for twenty-four hours of grandparent-sponsored fun. The elderly couple, despite being the children's only living grandparents, still saw the need to be the cool grandparents. The grandkids didn't mind the intrusion, while Arnold saw a chance for a peaceful and quiet birthday evening to immerse himself in his music. He'd been hankering for a listening session with Lee and Larry, Miles and Coltrane, for a long time. Not that he was incapable of caring for the brood on his own: perish the thought! But some alone time, especially on his birthday, would never go unappreciated.

His afternoon had faded into dusk when from his music room he heard the key turning in the front door. Naturally, he was curious: wasn't he supposed to be home alone? He heard one footfall enter. He heard the front door close and be locked. Then nothing, as if whoever had entered was waiting for him to make the next move. He sensed no danger; he could think of only one person who had entered.

"Phoebe?" he asked.

Nothing.

"Pheebs, something the matter?"

Still nothing. OK, to the front door, then.

"Did your trip get canceled or—"

He was stopped dead by what he saw. It was indeed Phoebe, clad in a full-length beige duster covering her from her ankles to her shoulders. Her expression conveyed a sternness that would yield to nothing.

He was officially stumped. "Phoebe, what's happening here?"

Her stern expression intensified some more as she answered in a matching officious voice: "Yo! Halt! Where exactly do you get off using such a term of familiarity on an authority figure?"

"Phoebe, what are you—"

Again, he was cut off as Phoebe undid the duster and let it slip off of her to reveal—

_Oh. My. God!_ Those words were first and foremost in Arnold's mind. _Holy Shit_ was a close second. Both indications that he had not seen this coming.

There she stood, now showing off an adult replica of the hall monitor uniform she'd last worn at P.S. 118, complete with the proper accoutrements. Not that he was paying much attention to the belt, the sash, the whistle, or even the cap, no matter how accurately reproduced they seemed to be. No, it was the dark blue, knee-length dress itself that grabbed his fancy. The way its relaxed cut still managed to highlight her fine proportions, her well-rounded breasts, her delicate hourglass figure, her callipygian rear profile. There were however non-standard additions to the uniform. For one, she was wearing a pair of black heels that did little for her officiousness but were most effective in calling attention to her sleek, shapely legs. So too did the sheer black stockings.

There she stood, highlighting a body that neither thirty-six years nor the bearing of three children – including a set of twins – could intimidate.

_God almighty_, he thought as he continued marveling at the erotic display.

_What a day!_

**xxXXXxx**

Perhaps it was highly inappropriate for him to let his mind briefly wander. But briefly wander it did, to a moment three months past.

"_Arnold, even way back then, even considering that your age may at most have barely reached double digits, even considering that the opposite sex may not have always been high on your priority list…was there a moment when – for however briefly – your elementary-school mind considered me attractive on a physical level?"_

Her question to him those three months ago, seemingly out of nowhere

And his response, whispered into her ear after some consideration.

"_You know, there was that one time when…you became hall monitor. I know, I know! You let the power go to your head and you became a real bitch in the process. We even had a nickname for you… Field Marshall Phoebe. But, um, as unpopular as you were, uh, every time I saw you in that uniform…well I can't lie, you also kinda looked cute and pretty in a way I'd never noticed before! I guess…I guess you could even say that the me way back then might even have thought that you looked…um, hot. Y'know? A part of me was a little bit sad to see you go when you stopped being the monitor."_

Back in the now, Arnold would only find out the following morning about the extent to which Phoebe had taken his answer to heart. How she had set up this very moment. Arranging in advance for the children to be elsewhere occupied – with several layers of contingency plans as only she could anticipate and neutralize. Making a meticulous, millimetrically precise order with an out-of-town seamer for what she was currently wearing, _PLUS_ setting up a cover story to collect the garment. All that information was a long time forthcoming.

_Now_, however…

At this precise moment in time, none of these background details mattered…

**xxXXXxx**

"I _asked_ you a question!" Phoebe continued in her loud, officious voice which snapped Arnold back to attention. "A question which still stands! Where exactly do you get off using such a term of familiarity on an authority figure? A _Field Marshall_, no less!""

And the best that Arnold, for all his years of combat experience, could manage was: "Er…sorry?"

"Not good enough!" snapped 'Field Marshall' Phoebe, fully invested in her role. "Don't you know, Son, that disrespect to others is the start of a slippery path toward moral degeneration? I don't think you do! What I _do_ think, is that detention for you is in order!"

She smirked as she guided him to the couch in the living room. He smiled as he allowed himself to be 'forcibly' seated. He was still smiling as she stood over him, somehow managing simultaneously to smirk in anticipation and glare at him disapprovingly.

"What's _this?_" she interrogated, paying particular attention to his legs. "Non-regulation leg apparel and footwear! This simply _won't_ do!"

With that, she went about assertively removing his sneakers, socks, and jeans, tossing the offending garments in no single consistent direction. Soon enough she stood to examine the result of her handiwork: her husband, still seated but now naked from the waist down but for his boxers.

"There!" she declared. "All non-regulation articles have been removed!"

"Er, don't you think it's just a bit nippy in here?" he protested with not much conviction.

"Oh, you should have considered that before deciding to violate the rulebook, _Rulebreaker!_"

Arnold was by now up to speed with the game at play. Remaining seated, he reached for his wife, the better he hoped to plead his case. All it did was earn him a dismissive slap on the wrist.

"_No!_" scolded Phoebe, still smirking with amatory intent. "Rulebreaker may only be touched by the detainer! Rulebreaker will not touch without express permission from said detainer. Are we clear?"

"Crystal!" replied Arnold, smiling too.

Arnold could see how Phoebe was enjoying this bit of roleplay. He watched her launch into a tirade of the importance of rules, the adherence thereof, the enforcement thereof, and how any disregard thereof could have devastating consequences for society and even civilization itself. He didn't follow her wordage, nor was he sure he was meant to do so. Phoebe's speech was accompanied by a sequence of distractingly sexy movements and suggestive body language that enjoyed all of his attention.

A seductive pout between sentences here and there.

Running her hands along the side of her body ever so invitingly.

'Accidentally' raising the side of the dress to reveal a little more thigh.

Turning her back to him and bending forward _just_ enough to reveal a hint of the black thong she was wearing underneath the skirt.

Getting up close enough and leaning forward just enough for him to see the black bra beneath the dress.

Sultrily whispering one particular section of her speech into his ear and capping it off with a delicate nibble (or two…) on the lobe.

Addressing him from behind while holding his head in her bosom, letting go just as she sensed him getting too comfortable.

Finally, towards the end of the lecture – not that Arnold knew or cared that Phoebe was wrapping it up – she found herself facing her birthday boy, straddling his one quadricep. Sliding up and down to her own escalating arousal. Up and down. Up and down, as her arousal started moistening Arnold's leg.

"And that.." Phoebe concluded among heaving gasps as she alighted from his leg. "That is why…that is why…society…as a whole…simply…simply cannot function…without rules…without rules to keep wayward…wayward behavior…in…in check! Did you follow?"

Arnold's goofy grin told her that he didn't; the large protuberance beneath his boxers spoke of his blood flow having a contrary set of priorities.

"_This_ is my reward for attempting to edify you?" Phoebe feigned disapproval at the sight, before reaching within the boxers and retrieving the membrum virile. The reaction was immediate: as hard as Arnold may have been, Phoebe's grip pushed it closer toward (metaphorically speaking) diamond levels of hardness.

"Oh, what-_ever_ am I to do with you, Arnold?" Phoebe proceeded in mock resignation, still gripping his shaft firmly. She afforded him no time to answer before giving the shaft a gentle up-and-down stroke, followed by a suggestion: "Something like _this_, maybe?"

"Or maybe _this_?" she offered again, this time with two strokes. Before Arnold could offer suggestions of his own, he couldn't: Phoebe had gone to work. She had settled onto her knees in front of his lap and was masturbating him with gentle strokes at first, building in tempo with his quickening groans and his increasing hardness.

Faster and firmer she continued. Firmer and faster, time ticking over steadily. His groaning deepening, playing sweet music in her ears.

"Phoebe! I'm…I'm about to..!" he eventually stuttered, trapped in her manual ecstasy and craving release. His release came potently before he could complete his sentence. Phoebe did well to anticipate the moment, and quickly moved to avoid his discharge.

Having succeeded, she moved to explain her action, but not before clambering onto her husband's lap and straddling him.

"Listen, Mister!" she was back in her voice of authority. "I spent a pretty penny on this outfit and I won't look kindly on having it stained so soon into our tryst! Are we clear on that?"

"Crystal!" Arnold echoed his original acknowledgement.

"Oh, and by the way!" she added, her smirk creeping back on to her visage. "Owing to his satisfactory conduct, the rulebreaker is allowed the use of his hands forthwith, _provided_ said hands remain above the outer garments!"

"Field Marshall Phoebe," replied a smiling Arnold, reveling in the situation, "you are kind and merciful to a fault!"

"'Field Marshall Phoebe'…" Phoebe pondered. "I like that!"

She had begun a slow grinding motion, her crotch against his. He, meanwhile, was exploring her body within the given parameters. Running his hands against her hips, flank, and breasts. Giving her buttocks the occasional squeeze, her breasts the odd fondle. Igniting her passion, stoking it towards an inferno.

Barely realizing how she was slowly unbuttoning his plaid shirt and exposing his upper body. By the time he was fully aware, her lips were upon his, her tongue begging ingress. Permission granted, she went about pouring her love and lust and longing into his mouth as they kissed hungrily. She then withdrew from the kiss to focus instead on his chest. She used her tongue to tease his nipples, before planting a string of delicate kisses down his abdomen. Lower, lower, slowly slinking off of him, back on to her knees. Until inevitably…

"_Well _now," she voiced her approval of his newly revitalized phallus, with which she was again face-to-face. "It seems old age hasn't yet caught up with you!"

"Hey, I didn't want to risk another ticket!" he replied.

He'd have followed up, were he not interrupted by her kissing his shaft no less delicately than she had his chest. And if that was enough to bring him to the edge, the feeling of her running her tongue skillfully against his hardness left him positively teetering. Next, he felt himself being swallowed by her, his mind irresistibly pulled toward a swirling vortex of pleasure and desire.

He peered downward and he saw. Phoebe, hands rested on his hips. Head bobbing up and down to a steady, seductive rhythm. Plying her oral and lingual expertise on his throbbing desire, leaving him helpless in her motion. Leaving him speechless but for his deep, primal moans and groans. Making him throw his head back as wave upon wave of rapture threatened to overload him well beyond critical mass.

Time: it was no longer relevant, no longer meaningful. All there was – all that mattered in the here and now – was Phoebe.

Sometime later, he felt Phoebe tap his legs somewhat urgently and sat up straight to look back down and see her motioning to her head. Instruction received and understood, as he held her head to stabilize it. As an immediate result, he felt her rhythm speed up, and with it, his race towards climax.

It came when he came. Phoebe made no attempt this time to dodge; she accepted his issue, before pulling away from him, standing up, and making a show of swallowing. She then threw herself back on him just to hold him and be held by him.

Thusly they reclined, soaking up the moment and each other's presence.

"Enjoying your birthday?" Phoebe asked after a while.

"Best detention, _ever!_" Arnold responded. "Almost makes me regret being such a goody-two-shoes."

"Oh, but it isn't yet over," Phoebe warned him teasingly. "I still have a few more chores for you…"

"How so?" he queried.

She didn't answer, not immediately anyway. Instead, she first released herself from their embrace before standing up to face him. With more orders: "Close your eyes and count slowly to ten."

Arnold complied. He opened his eyes to the sight of Phoebe striking another come-hither pose, accentuated by the black thong which she had removed and was now twirling around her right index finger.

"Do you think I'm being a mite too subtle?" she coquettishly asked. She didn't wait for an answer as she stopped twirling the undergarment and casually flicked it back over her shoulder. "In any case," she continued as she stared back at his crotch, "it seems your head is back in the game…"

Arnold gave an answer anyway: "Just one thing. The rule about touching only the outer garment..?"

"Rescinded!"

Phoebe voiced her answer with a mixture of playful domineering and outright impatience. Once the order was issued, though, it was on.

Within less than a minute – not that either was keeping time – Phoebe's dress was partially undone. So too her bra, with her breasts spilling out. Arnold was on her, fully reveling in the final restriction being lifted. He was cupping and caressing her one breast while kissing and suckling on the other's teat. Sporadically he'd move to kiss her lustily on her neck, her collarbone, and her mouth – _anywhere_ she'd have him.

Before long, Phoebe was bent over on the kitchen counter, skirt hoicked up to her hips, Arnold bumping and grinding furiously inside her from behind. Stirring her innards; having her chase after seemingly unattainable, ultimate delight. Their moans keeping perfect rhythm with their motions. Arnold was relentless in his actions, verging on merciless. Moment by moment, minute by minute, his stamina unwavering. Phoebe didn't mind; in fact, she was stupefied from the intense joy he kept stimulating in her. She came eventually, and hard at that.

But Arnold wasn't done yet. Nor was Phoebe for that matter.

Next she realized, she was on her back, still on the kitchen counter. Legs raised, ankles crossed over Arnold's shoulders and behind his neck. Arnold: between her legs and inside her, thrusting no less furiously than before. Phoebe: reacting in high-pitched exhaling, increasing in tempo. Increasing, tending once more to her limit. A limit reached and expressed through the arching of her back, the tensing of all her muscles, then a protracted wail that invited Arnold to follow through with another ejaculation.

Then…quiet, as the now very sweaty couple allowed themselves to relax. Allowing their breathing to return to normal and their heartbeats to steady. And so much more besides. Tense muscles had to relax. Their blood pressures and core body temperatures had to decrease back to healthy levels. The price paid for such exertion, made worthwhile solely by how good it felt.

And that was that; the couple was spent.

Phoebe slowly released her grip, allowing for Arnold's egress from her. They quickly returned to each other's embrace, savoring the love and intimacy that had now come to dominate the moment.

"Happy birthday, by the way!" Phoebe spoke to him in a soft voice devoid of any pretense. Arnold smiled back at her, saying: "Y'know, I should have told you sooner about the hall monitor thing!"

The significant others shared a laugh over Arnold's remark. Then they shared a lingering kiss conveying a lifetime of mutual love and devotion. For as good as sex between them always was, the aftermath was just as important. For as sweaty and tired and soiled as they were afterward, the hugs, kisses, and intimacy were of at least equal import.

They made their way back to the lounge, to settle back down on the couch and silently cherish each other's company. No worrying about tomorrow morning when they'd no doubt be frantically cleaning the lounge and the kitchen, lest they have to explain to the children how Daddy spilled yogurt all over the counter again, or creatively account for why Daddy's and Mommy's clothes were lying all over the lounge floor once again.

To Arnold, this was his life and he would have it no other way.

_ **THE END** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are done. Thank you for reading, thank you for liking. And if I've done enough to earn a comment from you, that would be nice too. Not an author's note, per see, but while writing this chapter, I discovered and eventually switched to Deezer as my preferred music streaming service. More or less the same music selection, but Deezer offers FLAC streaming, Anyway, this chapter's list is:
> 
> It's Not Hard To Love You – Al Jarreau  
Body Heat – Paul Hardcastle  
Drowning In Your Eyes – Ephraim Lewis  
Fairytale (Reprise) – Liquideep
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for stopping by and see you elsewhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: While I am chomping at the bit for Season 6 to be greenlit one day, whether for Nickelodeon or Netflix (I'm not fussy), I approached this project with the underlying premise of how HA could be if it were to be picked up by HBO instead.


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